


Imperfect

by Obi_theKenobi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: And this was supposed to be a happy story, Depression, HAPPY BIRTHDAY PADAWAN, Multi, PTDS, Poor Obi-Wan, Promised happy ending!, Slave Anakin, Star Wars - Freeform, The Clone Wars - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-12-13 16:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11763957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obi_theKenobi/pseuds/Obi_theKenobi
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Jedi Knight, military General of 212st Batallion, the Negotiator, a loyal peacekeeper, a lethal warrior, a dedicated Jedi, and a man suffering from the worst possible kind of pain.He struggles to hide the torture inside of him - and his quickly deteriorating mental state - from the Jedi Masters, as he struggles to endure the loss of his Master.Obi-Wan is completely alone, completely lost, until chance or fate unites him with a young slave boy.





	1. Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RiddleMeEvil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddleMeEvil/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE BEST FRIEND IN THE GALAXY!!!! This story is a birthday gift to the amazing writer and my best friend, RiddleMeEvil. Thank you for being such an amazing person. I love you so much. I am so lucky and blessed to have you in my life. God bless you and keep you always. And, of course, may the Force be with you.
> 
> I know I have not updated "Amid the Shadow" in over a month, and I PROMISE I AM WORKING ON IT!!! Thank you all so much for your patience and kindness. July has been a crazy month for my family, and this last week I've been working on this short story for my friend. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, and if you want to go over to RiddleMeEveil's page and check out some of her stories, you will not be disappointed! They are all amazing. (Especially if you love Obikin!) 
> 
> A few notes about the story: It starts off pretty dark, but, as promised, there will be a happy ending. Obi-Wan is portrayed a little different than he is in my other fics, because of the circumstances he's in. This story can be read as Obi-Wan and Anakin friendship or as Obikin. (RiddleMeEvil, you're welcome.) 
> 
> Thanks so much again!

**WARNING: _Graphic depictions of war-related death and injury!_ Some images and descriptions may be disturbing to some readers.  Themes of death, slavery, and physical abuse.  Mental illness, depression, PTSD.  References to/contemplation of self-harm and suicide.**

 

Imperfect

Chapter 1: Nightmares

 

It was difficult to say whether it was the dream or the sudden twist in his intestines, the way his stomach clenched and flipped, and the sudden rush of hot, thick, acidic fluid coming up his throat that woke him.  He stumbled—lightheaded and dizzy, legs weak, balance nonexistent, black blobs swimming in his eyes, sleep swirling in his half-conscious mind—across the dark room toward the fresher.  Bare feet scrambled over chilled tile.  Knees bruised as they hit the floor, hands gripped a cold porcelain rim—  Reflex threw him forward as vomit spewed out into his mouth and splattered into the toilet he leaned over. 

He gasped for air, the sickening taste burning his throat, the stench stinging his sinuses.  He gagged, leaning forward to heave a second, third, fourth time until nothing was coming up except yellow fluid that tasted like toxin and felt like it would blister his skin.  A weak groan escaping his lips.  He closed his eyes and leaned forward, curling up on the floor in front of the toilet and resting his head against the cold white rim.

 

Behind closed eyelids—darkness enveloped him, wrapped him in a protective and soothing embrace—he tried to clear his head.  He exhaled carefully.  Breathe out the emotions, the tightness in his chest, the knot in his gut, the dizziness in his skull, the fog in his mind, the deep, raw, throbbing _pain_... 

 

He opened his eyes.  _What’s the matter with me?_ He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and swallowed the sickening taste down his throat.  He grasped the edge of the toilet and got slowly to his feet.  _What’s wrong with me?_ he thought numbly, as he pressed the small silver switch and watched the foul substance disappear down a spiraling black hole. 

 

He was a terrible Jedi.  Why were none of the others tortured by nightmares _every single night_ , every time he lay down for an hour or a _few minutes_ to get some sleep?  Why did none of the others wake up choking on their own vomit and barely make it to the bathroom in time to throw up everything else they had tried so hard to keep in their stomachs?  Did others suffer like this?  Did they simply hide their feelings, their pain, the truth?  Or was he the only one? 

 

He did not know.  He did not _dare_ ask, or mention any of this to anyone.  What good would that do?  It would result in a shameful visit to the healers for a metal examination, judgmental and scornful stares from the other Knights and the Masters, maybe his suspension—or expellation—from the Jedi Order.  (He did his best to ignore the voice scratching at the back of his head whispering, _“And would that really be such a bad thing?  Do you_ really _want to stay in the Jedi Order?  What good can it do you?  What can it give you?  What is left for you here?”_ ) 

 

He did not know if other Jedi dealt with the things he dealt with, hid the things he had to hide.  All he knew was that he had never felt so alone. 

 

He sighed, glancing at the window and observing the inky blackness behind closed drapes.  The sun would not be up for a long time.  If he was lucky—if the Force took pity on him—he might be able to rest a few hours before he had to get up and report to the Council to receive his new assignment.  Flicking off the bathroom light (which came on automatically when he entered the fresher), he went back into his room, crossed quickly to the bed, and collapsed atop the soft mattress.  He gathered the blanket around him, eager for it’s warmth and comfort, and pulled it up to his chin.  Like a little child, that made be feel safer.  Somewhat. 

 

He sighed, frustration obvious in the huff he was glad the Masters didn’t hear, and closed his eyes.  _Just go to sleep,_ he commanded his tired, drained mind.  And then a desperate prayer to the Force: _Please, just let me sleep..._

 

But sleep would not come.  Not like this.  Not with these terrible, twisted, tortured thoughts circling relentlessly in his mind— _dark_ thoughts.  Thoughts that scared him.  Before long—unable to bare it any longer—he slid out of bed and sat on the floor.  He crossed his legs, straightened his back, let his hands rest on his knees, let his face melt into a mask that imitated peace, and he closed his eyes.  He released a slow, composed breath.  He felt his floor beneath him, the crisp air against him, a hundred sleeping signatures in the Force around him, Jedi at rest, at peace.  And the Force.  Always there.  Always there to help you and guide you, the Masters said.  Even now in the midst of communion with it, he could feel the Force was _there_ and he could not help but feel it had forsaken him.

 

_Release your emotions into the Force._

 

He exhaled carefully, allowing his emotions to slip away with that breath, acknowledging his feelings, his flaws, and his sins as he did so.  Release this sadness, this grief, this unrelenting pain.  The numbness, the emptiness, the hallow pit in his gut.  Release these dreams, these nightmares, these thoughts.  The desire to feel anything but this.  The attraction to silver, metal, things that shine, things that are sharp—knives, needles, razors had become a siren, and it was getting harder and harder to resist her song.  Pain, fear, guilt.  Terrible guilt.  Hatred.  He hated the murderer, and he hated himself.  The desire to punish himself, hurt himself, cut himself with a blade or burn himself with a lightsaber.  Fear.  Deep, dark terror that haunted him night and day.  The darkness inside of him, surrounding him, following him, always always calling to him, whispering for him to enter it, end it, follow him.  The desire to follow his Master. 

 

A sharp ring pieced the silence like the blade he saw in his head.  His heart dropped, his body flinched, and his eyes snapped open.  He looked around in sudden alarm, guilt and terror caving in on him, for some reason feeling like a criminal who has been caught in the act of the crime.  But it was only his comlink.  He let his breath out, scowling at his own foolishness and ordering his heart to clam down. 

 

Rising from his position on the floor, he went to retrieve the comlink on the stand at his bedside.  A new message blinked on the screen.  _Probably the Council,_ he thought as he opened it, _... about the new mission._

His heart dropped.  It was not the Council. 

 

_JEDI TEMPLE MEDICAL CENTER_

_Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi_

_Primeday, 7:00 AM standard time_

_Medical bay 201_

_Mental screening_

He couldn’t breathe.  He stared at the comlink in his hand—limbs trembling, heart racing, blood pounding in his temples.  The room spun.  The very air seemed to close around his throat and strangle him.  _Force.  Blast.  Kriff.  KRIFF!_  They _knew!?_   How did they know!?  _What_ did they know!?  Could they sense his emotions in the Force!?  Were his shields breaking!?  Could they _see_ into his mind!?  Did the know the things he’d been dreaming about, thinking about, _getting so close to doing!?_   

 

Force.  Blast.  Kriff. 

 

What now?  What was going to _happen_ now?  What would they do to him?  

 

His mind spun in a maelstrom of questions and terror. 

 

Mental screening.  What did that _mean_ exactly?  They suspected he was mentally unsound—or that his thoughts defined the laws of the Jedi—but they were still uncertain of it?  Should he simply deny it all?  Deny everything?  Or would lying make things worse?  What would happen if he told them the truth?—or if they discovered the truth whether he chose to reveal it or not.  The healers would tamper with his head, try to fix it, block these emotions, these thoughts, these desires.  But would they succeed?  Even if they _did_ succeed, surely there would be punishments.  The Masters would never look at him the same way.  No one would.  They would see him as weak, wounded, a failure.  They would see him as the disgrace to the Order he was.  He would be expelled.  How could he be of any use to the Jedi Order—or to anyone—in this pitiful, broken state?  He was worthless, a scrap of damaged merchandise, a shard of shattered glass that was too dangerous to keep, too ruined to bother trying to fix.

 

The truth was, Obi-Wan Kenobi was nothing save for what his Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, had made him.  He had no family, no identity, no history, no purpose, no _life_ apart from Qui-Gon.  Everything he was was because of his master, his father, the half that made him whole.  Qui-Gon taught him what to believe in, what to stand for, who he was, and who he wasn’t.  Qui-Gon was... everything to him.

 

Now Qui-Gon was gone. 

 

Dead.  Murdered.  Murdered because of Obi-Wan, his padawan, who he trusted and loved.  Murdered because Obi-Wan had failed him, because he could not save him—no, because he _could have_ saved him but failed.  Murdered because Obi-Wan stood by helplessly, _worthlessly_ and _watched_ Darth Maul kill him.  It was _his fault_.  He did this, he _deserved_ this pain.  As far as he could understand, he had murdered his own master.

 

Qui-Gon was gone.  And Obi-Wan was nothing. 

 

Obi-Wan’s stomach twisted, and he felt like he would be sick all over again.  He stood paralyzed, eyes glued to the comlink as if he hoped, _prayed_ he would blink and the text would disappear by the time his eyes reopened.  No, no, _no!_   His mind raced and whirled in desperate panic, dismay, and denial.  How could this be happening?  How could this be real?  Was _this_ another nightmare!?  Please say it was, please let it be!  

 

But it wasn’t. 

 

Obi-Wan’s eyes darted across the room to observe the time glowing on a small screen beside his bed.  His intestines curled—his gag reflex might have started to kick in again—when he read the numbers.  6:43 AM.  No.  He barely had time to _think,_ much less to decide what to say or do. 

 

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the time.  The pungent taste of vomit still burned his throat.  It would take a good 7 minutes to walk to the Medcenter from his quarters, maybe 10 if he walked slowly.  Lest he should opt to show up late—or not to show up at all—he best start heading there now. 

 

Going through the motions, feeling somehow detached from his body, his numb numb and some other power controlling his limbs and body, his legs walked across the room, his arms opened the dresser drawer and withdrew a clean set of robes, he stripped off his sweat-dampened pajamas and dressed himself in silenced. 

 

The next thing he knew—almost as if a part of his memory had been black out—he was walking through the halls of the Jedi Temple, heading toward the Medcenter.  Sharp rays of early morning sun—like golden blades—feel through the tall, cathedral-style windows that lined the corridors and glowed on the white-carpeted floor. 

 

Obi-Wan walked with his face turned down, his eyes watching his boots pass over the ground.  When he passed another Knight, he barely nodded in acknowledgement, or sometimes, lost in his frantic thoughts and distress, did not notice them.  When he passed a Master, instinctively—mechanically, like a droid who has been programed to do so—he glanced up at him or her before quickly averting his eyes and offering a tense bow. 

 

He raised his eyes and was staring at this text engraved on a closed door: JEDI TEMPLE MEDICAL CENTER.  His insides roiled as if he had just ingested a dangerous amount of spoiled meat.  Maybe if he threw up now, they would forget about the “mental screening” and simply treat him for whatever “stomach virus” was making him sick. 

 

He swallowed.  His throat had gone almost unbearably dry.  His tongue felt thick and pasty, and it stuck to the inside of his mouth, his lips, his gums.  His heart beat painfully against his breastbone, at over twice its normal speed.  He wanted nothing more than to turn around now and never enter that Medcenter, to go back into his room and hide—hide everything.  The dreams, the thoughts, the pain, the truth.  If he could hide from the fact that his Master was dead because of him, he would have.  As if without the permission of his mind, his legs stepped forward, and the door slid open for him to enter.

 

The Temple Medcenter was never empty, especially nowadays.  The war with the Separatists was growing increasingly violent, and whispers of a Sith Lord circulated the galaxy, only seeming to escalate the terror and turbulence spreading like fire throughout the galaxy.  Near legions of ill and wounded (mostly wounded) Jedi and clone troopers occupied the infirmary’s many rooms and wings.  Healers and surgeons were always at work.  Medical droids constantly zoomed up and down those white halls.  However, at this time of morning, the hospital was considerably quiet.  Many patients were asleep—Obi-Wan could sense their silent presences in the Force—and whatever treatments or operations were in process were carried out behind closed doors. 

 

The young Knight stood silently at the entrance for a moment, the door closing quietly behind him.  He stared at the vast check-in and waiting area.  The entire Medcenter was stark white.  The floor, the walls, the ceiling.  The facility kept was so sterile they could have performed surgery in the hallway.  It appearance that everything had just been scrubbed clean with a metal-bristled brush, which would not only remove germs, dirt, and red stains from those white surfaces but also scrape away a layer of tile.  The faint sent of some sort of cleaner hovered in the air and stung Obi-Wan’s nose to breathe.  The waiting room was relatively empty.  A clone trooper, whose eyes were closed and who looked like he would fall asleep before his name was called, sat alone in a chair in the corner.  A cleaning droid zipped past in the hallway.  A young woman in white garments sat behind the check-in desk. 

 

Her eyes locked with Obi-Wan’s as he glanced at her.  Choking down his nerves, focusing on the shields around his mind and struggling to make them their strongest, he approached the desk and conceived a false smile.  “Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi,” the woman recognized him before he could open his mouth to tell her who he was.  “What brings you here this morning?”

 

“I received a com message from the Medcenter this morning,” Obi-Wan answered quietly.  He hoped no one—especially not one of the Masters—overheard this.  “Apparently I have an appointment at seven o’clock.”

 

The woman nodded and scrolled through the information on the datapad before her.  “I see it.  Obi-Wan Kenobi.  Seven o’clock.”  Her eyes flickered upward from the screen and, her face a cold mask, met Obi-Wan’s with a sharp sting.  “It says this is for a mental screening,” she reported calmly, and Obi-Wan swallowed the urge to tell her keep her voice down. 

 

“I don’t know what’s its for exactly,” he answered coolly, his eyes revealing nothing, his face apparently calm although his heart raced and nerves thrashed painfully in his stomach.  “I received the message this morning, but, to be perfectly honest with you, I believe this appointment is unnecessary.”

 

She looked away.  Her eyes fixed on the screen once more, and her fingers worked rapidly over the keypad.  “Well, whether _you_ think it’s necessary or not, apparently some of the Masters think it _is_ necessary.”  A thin white band with his name and information, along with the date, time of appointment, and “mental screening” printed from a machine beside her datapad.  “Wrist please,” she said.  Obediently, Obi-Wan extended his arm toward her so she could fasten the band around his wrist.  He pulled down his sleeve to cover the inscription.  “You can sit in the waiting area,” she went on, no longer looking at him.  “A medical droid will be out shortly to show you to your med-bay, and a healer will be in a soon as he can.” 

 

Obi-Wan mumbled his understanding and headed for the waiting area.  He sat down a few chairs away from the clone trooper and fixed his eyes on the white tile beneath his boots.  He was lost in his own distressed and disturbed thoughts and growing more nauseous than ever when a familiar voice awoke him from this fearful meditation. 

 

“General Kenobi?”

 

Obi-Wan looked up.  It was the clone.  If before he looked on the verge of passing out, now he was wide awake.  He stared at Obi-Wan with a wide grin on his face and a gleam of eager excitement in his eyes.  He was not a member of battalion 212 and not one of Obi-Wan’s troops.  Of course, it was difficult to know for sure which clones he had spoken with a time or two (they all shared the same face).  Yet, he was fairly certain he did not know this clone, at least not on a personal level.  “Yes?” he answered, his face somewhat bewildered.

 

“Stars above!”  The clone trooper sprang to his feet, his hand shooting to his forehead to solute to the Jedi.  “It’s a pleasure to have the chance to meet you, sir!  I’m CT-3427,” he said anxiously.  “But, uh...”  The clone’s cheeks colored softly as he looked down and added, “but most people just call me Backfire.” 

 

A gentle (sincere) smile formed on Obi-Wan’s lips.  “Why is that?” he asked.  “Is that what usually happens when you carry out your missions?”

 

“No,” Backfire answered with a grin and a laugh.  “That’s what happened the first time I shot a blaster in the Kamino training center.”  

 

“Oh.”  Obi-Wan’s playful expression dropped and hardened into concern.  “I’m sorry to hear that.  That... must have been painful.  And... difficult.”  _Traumatic_ was the word he was looking for, but he thought it a term best not to use aloud.

 

“Not really,” Backfire said with a shrug.  “My brothers got a good laugh out of it.”  He sat down, this time next to Obi-Wan.  “It was only a practice weapon.  The blasters we use in training aren’t meant to severely injure anyone.  I was in the Medcenter for a few days, but it wasn’t too serious.  That’s how I got this scar though.”  He pointed out a slanted blade-like scar on his forehead above his right eye.  “Really, it worked out for the better.  It was how I got my name, and the scar helps people identify me.”  He smiled.  “It makes me _a little_ less identical to all the other troopers.”  

 

Obi-Wan returned the smile.  “Well, I’m glad you weren’t injured too badly.  And I’m glad to have met you, Backfire.  It’s a pleasure.”

 

The clone’s face lit up when he heard General Kenobi say this.  Suddenly he wasn’t just _another clone,_ one in six million.  He was more than just a tool of the Republic, a disposable weapon to be replaced once he was damaged too badly to repair.  This man, this _Jedi—_ and not just any Jedi, Obi-Wan Kenobi, himself—valued him as a life, a man, a soldier.  A proud smile spread across his face.  “The pleasure is all mine, sir,” he said, bowing his head in respect.  “It’s an honor to meet you.” 

 

Obi-Wan smiled—a little wearily.  The clones thought too much of him.  They _all_ did.  Even the Masters.  They thought he was such a good, such a ‘perfect’ Jedi.  And maybe he was.  He hid is emotions excellently, after all. 

 

But apparently now excellently enough, because somehow they knew now, and now he would face consequences. 

 

“Anyway,” he said, in effort to divert the conversation to another topic.  “How are you?  Are you injured?”

 

“Oh!” Backfire cried, his cheeks reddening slightly as it dawned on him that General Kenobi must have been sick or hurt, as he would otherwise have no reason to visit the Medcenter.  “I’m so sorry, I forgot to ask!  Are you alright, General?  What’s the matter?”

 

Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered away.  He stared at the floor, his face paling slightly. 

 

“Are you—”  Backfire cut himself off.  “Er, forgive me, sir,” he muttered uncomfortably, noting the General’s reaction.  He looked away and stiffened in his seat.  “It’s none of my business; I shouldn’t have pried.”

 

“Oh no, you’ve done nothing wrong,” Obi-Wan said.  He forced himself to meet Backfire’s eyes, and he forced a somewhat-convincing smile.  “I appreciate your concern.  I’ve been feeling rather ill lately,” he conceived an explanation that wasn’t _completely_ untrue.  “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

 

“I’m glad to hear that, sir,” said Backfire letting his breath out, relieved General Kenobi was alright and relieved the awkward tension between them had eased. 

 

“And what about you?” Obi-Wan repeated his original question, now even more anxious to turn the conversation away from himself.  “I hope you haven’t been injured too severely.” 

 

“Ah, no, not too bad,” Backfire said waving a hand.  “Blaster skimmed my arm a week or so back.  I’ve already been treated in a field hospital, but now the wound’s getting infected so they sent me here.”  Before Obi-Wan could reply, Backfire lifted the sleeve of his uniform to reveal a gruesomely infected slit that started at his wrist and went all the way up to his deltoid.  The blaster bolt had taken a large slice out of his arm, leaving a deep, raw canyon where flesh and muscle used to be.  Obi-Wan could see where the skin was burned, disfigured, and destroyed.  Raw muscle, boiling red flesh finally starting to cool and brown, blisters finally deflating and peeling.  The skin around the wound was red and swollen with fluid, like an overfilled IV drip about to burst.  Yellow puss oozed out of the wound and formed a gross drying crust around it. 

 

Obi-Wan’s heart plunged into his gut.  His insides twisted like a pit of snakes.  Something is his mind dropped, and suddenly the room was spinning, darkening, swaying in and out of focus.  His chest tightened.  He could barely breathe.  He beheld the wound with an even expression, his eyes revealing nothing.  He appeared as calm, as cool as ever.  However, _horrible_ images flashed in his eyes, in his mind. 

 

The battles.  The war.  Ships going down like flies smacked out of the air, bursts fire like erupting volcanos when they touched the planet’s surface.  Troops falling, clutching bleeding wounds and what was left of mangled organs.  Agonized screams, grinding teeth, groans of dying men—and civilians, women and children.  The _reek,_ the stench of death, blood—metallic, pungent, rank—smoke, fire, burning human flesh.  Blue, bloodless limbs lying in dark crimson pools.  Soft white flesh slit wide open.  Blood, blood everywhere.  Dark, thick, clunky, stringy crimson canyons in disfigured, dismembered carcasses.  Tangled knots of intestines—snakes slithering from ripped bellies.  Puddles of guts.  Heaps of hacked-up human.  Faces twisted into expressions of such _agony—_ teeth clenched, eyes bulging or rolling back in their skulls—frozen in a final scream that will break off before it is finished and dissolve like smoke into the desolate field of battle. 

 

Obi-Wan’s face was a passive mask, his eyes a barrier of ice.  Staring directly at him, Backfire saw no indication that the Jedi was disturbed by the wound in any way.  “—so as long as that treatment works,” Backfire was saying placidly, “I shouldn’t need another surgery, Force willing.” 

 

He pulled his sleeve down over his arm, concealing the wound.  The knot twisted up behind Obi-Wan’s ribcage loosened slightly, and he inhaled a grateful breath.  The Jedi looked up to meet the soldier’s eyes as he finished, “I’m lucky really.  I could have lost my arm, easily.”  A jab of pain flashed behind his eyes.  He looked away and—his voice suddenly heavy under a painful burden—muttered, “Many of my brothers have already lost their lives.”  He glanced at Obi-Wan.  “I know you know that, General.  More than most people.  More than most Jedi.” 

 

Obi-Wan found himself staring at the tile floor again.  He swallowed dryly, as his mind was, once again, assaulted by memories, images, faces, sounds, smells, the sensation of hot muddy blood he could feel sticking to his hands and running down his body even now, horrors that tormented him night and day, in sleep and in waking, with his eyes open and his eyes closed, burned into his brain as if with a branding iron, tattooed before his eyes, never leaving him, never letting him rest, never giving him peace. 

 

Somehow... even 10 years later... the worst of these visions— _most_ of these visions—the ones that ached, throbbed, burned the worst... were of Qui-Gon.  Sometimes alive.  Sometimes lying in his arms, choking out words and choking on his own blood.  Sometimes cold, his skin pale and translucent like ice, his eyes still open but dark, consumed by death.

 

Silence fell between the clone and the Jedi, as each was dragged into a painful meditation on their own losses.  Obi-Wan didn’t know what to say to the soldier.  I’m sorry.  I understand.  I’ve lost people too.  I’ve lost the only father—the only family—I’ve ever had.  But he didn’t.  He couldn’t.  Some things simply could not be uttered. 

 

The men were so absorbed in these memories—the painful past that nothing, no amount of sorrow or regret or tears or prayer, could change—they did not notice the medical droid zipping toward them on round wheels that rolled instead of feet until it screeched to a stop less than a foot in front of them, practically bumming into their knees.

 

Obi-Wan and Backfire looked up at the same time.  Upon seeing the droid, the young trooper rose from his chair.  “It was an honor to meet you and speak with you, General Kenobi,” he said with a final nod and smile at Obi-Wan.  “Thank y—”

 

Before he could finish speaking, the droid fixed an expressionless, durasteel-faced and empty-eyed stare on the Jedi.  “I am medical droid N5-90,” the droid cooed in a high-pitched, robotic voice.  “Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, if you will follow me, I will assort you to Medical Bay 201.”

 

Obi-Wan’s heart dropped in fear, but his brow gathered in a calm frown.  He sent a quizzical glance at the droid and then at the clone.  Backfire flushed slightly in embarrassment and scrambled to return to his seat, staring at the floor and muttering apologies under his breath.  Obi-Wan frowned at the droid.  “This solider has been waiting far longer than I have,” he objected, “and he is in need of _far more urgent_ attention than I am.” 

 

N5-90’s neck swiveled back and forth in its joint in something that mimicked a shake of the head.  “Jedi are attended to before _clones,_ ” he flatly reported.  “ _All_ human beings are attended to before clones.”  

 

Anger flared in Obi-Wan’s chest.  The frown on his face darkened into a cold glare, and he could feel his blood burning hotter through his veins.  “Well, _that_ isn’t fair,” he snapped, a rigid edge forming in his voice.  “That isn’t right!”

 

“I’m sorry if that contradicts your personal convictions.  That’s simply the way it is.”

 

“Uh, General Kenobi,” Backfire quickly intervened, as the Jedi’s face heated with fury and he opened his mouth to spit something harsher at the droid.  “Really, it’s not a problem.  I’m fine, I can wait.  You go ahead.  My appointment is not until later anyway.”

 

Obi-Wan glanced at Backfire.  Their eyes met.  The Jedi saw sincerity, the best of intentions, in the trooper’s eyes, but he also doubted that last claim was true.  The oblivious medical droid confirmed his suspicions when he chirped, “CT-3427, your appointment was scheduled for 6:30 this morning.  I’m afraid there has been a brief wait.  Please be patient while you wait a bit longer.”

 

“Of course,” Backfire said, forcing a smile.  He looked at Obi-Wan, his eyes reassuring.  “It’s been a true privilege to meet you, General Kenobi.  Good luck with your appointment.  I hope you recover soon.”

 

“Thanks,” Obi-Wan murmured.  Gritting his teeth, he rose from his chair and took his place at the droid’s side. 

 

“Just this way,” said N5-90, turned on the spot and zooming off down a long white corridor. 

 

“You as well,” Obi-Wan continued, eyes locked with Backfire’s.  He did not glance over his shoulder to acknowledge the now absent droid or note the direction he was headed in.  “I hope the treatment goes well and you don’t need another surgery.”

 

Backfire smiled.  “One way or the other, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

 

Obi-Wan tried to smile, but he doubted his endeavor was successful.  “Force willing,” he echoed the clone’s previous words.  “May the Force me with you.”

 

“You as well, General.”

 

Obi-Wan returned a nod and a strained smile and, with that, turned away from the droid.  As soon as his back was turned, he let out a tense breath, the mask vanished from his face, and his features set in an expression of cold frustration and stress.  His eyes scanned the nearby halls and doorways, searching for the droid.  He located him more than halfway down a somewhat-nearby corridor.  Apparently, N5-90 finally became aware that Obi-Wan was not following him, and now he waited with crossed arms and an impatient wheel tracing circles on the floor.  “Do try to keep up,” the droid scolded, as Obi-Wan went to meet him.  “I don’t have all day, you know.  We _are_ on a schedule.”

 

The Knight glowered at the corridor in front of him, not glancing at the droid as he marched along side it.  “Apparently not for the clones,” he growled under his breath.

 

“What do you mean by that?” the droid interrogated.  “I assure you, clone troopers are scheduled for specific times and appointments just like everybody else.  As I said to CT-3427, he was scheduled for an—”

 

“I don’t think it’s right,” the Knight snapped suddenly, twisting around to glare at the droid. 

 

“You don’t think what is—”

 

“That you treat other patients before the clones.  They are good soldiers, good _people._   They fight and _die_ for the Republic.  They deserve the same respect as everyone else, if not _more._ ” 

 

“But they are just clones,” the droid replied, not moved by the Jedi’s argument nor his anger.  “They are weapons designed by the Republic for the _purpose_ of fighting and dying...” 

 

“They are _more_ than that,” Obi-Wan refused.  “They’re _human beings._  It’s wrong to treat them like anything less.  Like slaves, like machinery.”

 

“Yet, it is not wrong to treat _droids_ like slaves, like machinery?”   

 

Obi-Wan looked away.  He grumbled through his teeth, “That’s different.”  

 

“How is that different?” the droid questioned and seemed to be sincerely curious.  “The clones are created in a laboratory and program to behave a certain way, to follow certain orders, to be the perfect soldiers, just as droids are.  Clones are made of organic material but are otherwise no different from droids.” 

 

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “I know those men.”  His voice was a low murmur, almost a whisper.  Had the droid been human, he may have picked up on the sudden huskiness in the Jedi’s voice—a weight, a burden, a deep, raw _pain._ “I fight along side them.  I see how they care about each other, how devoted they are to their brothers.  I see the sacrifices they make.  I watch them lay down their lives... giving so much, never getting anything in return...” 

 

He swallowed.  A knot was forming in his throat.  His eyes stung.  No.  This was _not_ the time to show weakness, or emotion, or any hint of how injured—broken—his mind really was.  Not now when he was walking into a med-bay for a mental examination.  He exhausted through his nose, released his feelings into the Force....

 

He looked at the droid, his gaze steady, his face like stone.  “If people saw the things I’ve seen, they would put the clone troopers _above_ all other beings in Coruscant—in the whole galaxy.”

 

“Maybe that’s true,” N5-90 said indifferently.  They arrived at a doorway labeled 201.  The droid’s human-like hand momentarily drew back and vanished into its round socket, and a metal chip appeared in its place.  N5-90 scanned the chip, and the door slid open.  “And maybe it isn’t.”  N5-90 zipped into the room.  Obi-Wan grudgingly followed.  “After all, what do I know?  I’m just a medical droid.  I will never be on a battlefield, and I will see the things you have seen.  Sit down on the examination table please.”

 

Obi-Wan obeyed.  He hopped easily up on the high table (the little jump it required was nothing to a Jedi), and waited in silence as N5-90 swirled around the room to fetch and prepare tools and equipment.  Obi-Wan’s fingers brushed over the white sheets he sat upon.  Just like the rest of the Medcenter, the room looked as if it was coated in snow and ice.  Apart from some medical cabinets, equipment, some tools, screens, and monitors, everything was white— _too_ white, _too_ clean.  It caused a gross, nauseous sensation to settle in Obi-Wan’s stomach like a bad meal he’d have like to regurgitate.  Maybe it was obvious fact that this room had very recently been scrubbed and sanitized and sterilized, and he could not help but imagine the blood they stripped from this white mattress, dark red fluid that drenched white sheets just like these he sat on now, ruby raindrops or vomit-like spatters mopped off that white tile floor they would scrub until every last smear of it was gone.

 

Obi-Wan’s guts twisted around inside of him, nerves making him feel sick to the point that it was difficult to sit still.  He looked up suddenly.  A pair of cold blue-green eyes, like frostbitten steel, stared back at him.  Obi-Wan gazed steadily at his own reflection, and he was relieved by the lack of emotion visible there.  A pale but seemingly peaceful face, mouth drawn into a neutral position, not frowning but not smiling, chin coated in a short, coarse beard, long red-tented-gold hair falling smoothly around his head and down the length of his neck.  His features were a stony mask, his eyes like ice.  Despite everything tormenting, _torturing_ him now—the nightmares, the images always in his head, the wound on Backfire’s arm, the argument with that stupid droid, the fact that he was called here for a mental screening, the fact that they _knew_ the truth, the terror of what would happen next—an onlooker would never detect the true tempest of emotion inside of him.  At least not by looking at Jedi’s calm, composed expression.  Perhaps they could detect it in the Force.

 

Suddenly, N5-90 was at his in front of him, four cold metal hands grabbing him, touching all over him.  The droid ordered him to sit still while he took his vitals.  Obi-Wan focused on forcing down his apprehension and calming his heart and breathing to a normal rate while N5-90 listened to his chest, lungs, heart, took his temperature, pulse, blood pressure, Force knows what else.  “You seem perfectly healthy to me,” the droid muttered and sounded somewhat annoyed as he did so.  “If it were up to me, I would discharge you from the Medical Center now and have nothing more to do with you.  You seem perfectly sound to me, physically and, believe it or not, even _mentally_.”

 

“Oh, I wish it _were_ up to you,” Obi-Wan remarked with a pleasantly snide smile.  “I’m afraid the more time we are forced to be in the same room together, the less ‘mentally sound’ I become.”

 

N5-90 was silent for a moment.  He stared at Obi-Wan with his frozen, durasteel face that made it impossible to guess what he was thinking—if droids could think.  “That was rude of you,” he finally replied, apparently deciding the comment _was_ meant to insult him.  He spun around and promptly headed for the door.  “A healer will be in sometime, whenever he finishes his _important_ work and can make time for you,” he said as he slipped out of the room.  “Please be patient while you enjoy your wait.”  The door smacked shut behind him. 

 

Obi-Wan let out a shaky breath.  Despite that the droid really might be enough to drive him crazy, he was suddenly terrified of N5-90’s absence, and he wanted nothing more than for the obnoxious little thing to return and report that he had more tests to run.  At least when the droid was here, he knew the healers would not come in just yet.  At least when he was arguing with the droid, his mind was somewhat distracted and he could focus on something other than this approaching visit and just how scared, how helpless, how _weak_ he was.  Force, what was going to happen now?  What would they do?  What would he say?  Maybe he would deny everything.  He could put up his shields and—

 

The door opened.  Obi-Wan’s head snapped up and his eyes darted to the now open entrance way, knowing he was far from ready to face this Jedi Master.    

 


	2. Perfectly Sound

**WARNING: _Graphic depictions of war-related death and injury!_ Some images and descriptions may be disturbing to some readers.  Themes of death, slavery, and physical abuse.  Mental illness, depression, PTSD.  References to/contemplation of self-harm and suicide. **

 

 

Imperfect

Chapter 2: Perfectly Sound

 

The Knight’s heart felt like it was beating inside his skull.  He couldn’t hear—or _think_ —over the frantic, thundering like ocean waves smashing and breaking against his mind, drowning his braid. There was no one in the doorway.  What?  His face contracted in confusion as he took in the empty hallway where a face should have been.  The patter of footsteps, and something hard—a cane or a walking stick—tapping the floor along with them prompted Obi-Wan to drop his gaze lower to about the height of a dwarf....  

 

His hammering heart screeched to a halt and dropped into his stomach.  His mouth opened, but no sound came out.  The color drained from his face.  He stared at the familiar face in a muddle of shock, embarrassment, and fear.  At last, when his lips regained their ability to move, he exclaimed, “Master Yoda!”

 

“Knight Kenobi,” the old Jedi replied, inclining his head in greeting. 

 

“What—  Why are—  Am I in the right place?  Is this your room?” Obi-Wan stammered, as Jedi Master hobbled toward him.  With spontaneous speed and agility that, judging by his size and age, one who did not know him as the great Jedi Master could never expect, Yoda sprang into a hover chair, and it floated upward, lifting him until he and the Knight were at eyelevel. 

 

“In the right place you are, Obi-Wan,” Yoda replied in his gruff yet kind voice.  Large orbs like gold sunlight gleaming on the surface of green water looked directly and deeply at Obi-Wan, and already the Knight felt that the Master could see through him, that he knew everything....  “The one to request this appointment, I was.” 

 

Obi-Wan stared at Yoda.  Force.  What did he know?  What did he see?  The dreams?  Obi-Wan’s _thoughts?_    Or something worse....  Despite the effort to keep his face a neutral mask, fear gleamed in Obi-Wan’s eyes.  “Have...” he began slowly, carefully.  “Have I done something wrong, Master Yoda?”

 

“Wrong?” the Master echoed, as if surprised.  He sighed and shook his head.  “No, not wrong.  _Concerned_ I am for you, Obi-Wan.”

 

“Concerned?”  Obi-Wan eyes flickered away.  He stared at the white sheet over the bed, unable to look Yoda in the eye, and he watched his fingers pick nervously at the fabric.  “Why are you concerned for me, Master?”

 

He heard Yoda sigh again, heavier this time.  He glanced up, but the Master was not looking at him.  He stared meditatively, almost woefully, into the emptiness around them and shook his head slowly, sadly.  “Great _pain_ I sense in you, Obi-Wan,” the Jedi softly spoke.  “Great loss.  Much you have been through.  Much you have suffered.  _Feel_ your pain...”  He looked up.  His gaze met Obi-Wan’s. “... _I_ do.” 

 

This was the truth.  Not only could Yoda feel it, Obi-Wan could see it.  He saw a reflection of his suffering in Master Yoda’s eyes, pools of depthless wisdom and infinite wonder. 

 

“In the Force I feel it when mediate I do.  At night.  During the day.  All of the time.  In pain you _constantly_ are.” 

 

Obi-Wan looked at his hands.  They were now clenched in his lap, so tightly his knuckles were white and his veins sticking out.

 

“Well you have done to hide this from the Council,” Yoda continued gravely.  “Concealed your emotions you have, buried them deep inside.  Still, sense your burden I do.  A difficult, _painful_ burden you have carried with you for many years.” 

 

Obi-Wan did not answer.  He did not look up.  Tense silence set over the room.

 

Yoda waited patiently for the Knight to respond, but Obi-Wan never did.  “Perhaps...” he prompted gently, “caused this was by the death of Qui-Gon Jinn.”

 

Obi-Wan looked up.  He heard his old Master’s name and reacted as if fire had burned him.  In that fraction of a second, Yoda saw everything he needed to confirm this suspicion—fear, anger, grief, hatred and guilt—flash through Obi-Wan’s eyes. Yoda sighed. 

 

“Ten years it has been, Obi-Wan,” the Master said solemnly, “and still... let go, you have not.”

 

“But I’ve _tried,_ Master Yoda!” Obi-Wan cried.  Before he could stop himself, he was telling Yoda more than he probably should, revealing more emotion and pain than a Jedi was supposed to feel.  “I try _every day,_ _every night!_   I try to offer my emotions to the Force, I try to let go, I try to stop thinking about Qui-Gon and about... about all of it, but I can’t!  I don’t know _why,_ I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!”

 

Yoda beheld Obi-Wan with a careful, contemplative gaze.

 

Obi-Wan regretted saying that.  Blast!  Why did he say that!?  Now Yoda knew they truth.  Now they would see how weak, how pathetic he was, and they would have no choice but to expel him from the Order.  Just like that, with a few stupid words he—somehow—thought might help but which would only make everything so much worse, he had thrown away his whole life.  What was left of it.

 

“Difficult for many Padawans it is to let go of a Master,” Yoda said at length.  “A painful loss it is.  The closer they are, the more painful it is.  Why attachment is forbidden now you understand.”

 

“Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan muttered, averting his eyes.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, caution screamed at him to keep his mouth shut, keep hiding, don’t tell him, you’ll only make things _worse!_   But he could not stop himself.  Even the strongest dam will eventually crack when it has been holding back too much water for too long.  Even the strongest rock cannot stand against an entire ocean.  “Nearly every Jedi at some point loses his Master.  All the others must go through this, so I don’t know why...” 

 

He trailed off, his words evaporating like mist into silence. 

 

He swallowed hard.

 

Yoda waited. 

 

Obi-Wan tried again.  “...I don’t know why it seems so... so _different_ for me.” 

 

He glanced at Yoda.  A pair of gentle, compassionate eyes looked back at him, and Obi-Wan decided to at least _try_ to ask for guidance... something.  Anything.  His voice was soft, almost a whisper as he tried to explain—like a young, frightened child looking to a wise mentor for advice, comfort, _help._  

 

“I don’t know why I can’t simply let go and move on like everybody else does.  I do try.  I try to be a good Jedi...”

 

Yoda nodded in understanding, closing his eyes and releasing a deep breath.  “A good Jedi you _are,_ Obi-Wan,” the Master sighed.  “A more committed apprentice, never have I known.  Wounded you deeply the death of your Master did.  And helped this war has not.  Difficult for many people these times have been.” 

 

“What do you think I should do, Master Yoda?” Obi-Wan asked softly.  He gazed evenly at the Jedi, waiting, hoping, praying for an answer....

 

“At the present,” Yoda replied slowly, “and only temporarily, I suggest your resignation from the Jedi Order.”

 

...

 

Obi-Wan was going to be sick.  “What!?” he exclaimed.  He stared at Yoda wide-eyed and pale-faced.  For the first time, he forgot about hiding his feelings, and Yoda could see a sheer, overwhelming terror taking over him.  “You want me to—  No!  Master, please, don’t send me away!  I can’t leave!  I have nowhere to go!”

 

“For the best this is, Obi-Wan,” Yoda huffed, lowering his face.  “Punishment this is not, but for your own health and safety.  Care about you, I do.”

 

“But, Master Yoda, I can’t leave the Order,” Obi-Wan protested, shaking his head fervently.  “The Jedi Order is my _life._  Apart from the Order, I have nothing.”

 

“Only about you, Obi-Wan, this is not.  Consider the Republic, the people, your _clone troops_ we also must.”

 

“When have I _ever_ failed the Republic?” Obi-Wan challenged.  “What mission have I been unable to complete?  As for my soldiers, I treat them better than any other commander in the military.” 

 

“Indeed,” Yoda agreed with a thoughtful nod.  “Quite the clone activist it seems you have become.  Spread throughout the galaxy your reputation has.”

 

“What?”  Obi-Wan frowned as if he had never heard of such a thing.

 

“A noble heart you have, Obi-Wan,” Yoda continued gently.  “Great compassion, great kindness.  And, yet, sense in you also, your Master’s _defiance_ I do.” 

 

What was that supposed to mean?  That he was only treated the clones like real soldiers, like _real men,_ because he wanted to somehow _rebel_ against the Order, or the Republic, or society in general?  The mere suggestion was insulting.  Or, perhaps... Yoda believed—and was correct—that it was Qui-Gon who taught his padawan to be compassionate, at times to listen to his heart instead of his mind, occasionally to bend the rules set by the galaxy—or the Code set by the Jedi—if his conscience told him that was right. 

 

Qui-Gon Jinn would have treated the clone troopers with dignity.  He would have respected them, honored them.  In his own quiet manner, he would have opposed their oppression, argued for their freedom.  Maybe Yoda thought that was why Obi-Wan was doing this. 

 

...Maybe Yoda was not entirely incorrectly.  

 

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Obi-Wan dodged the comment, or attempted to.    

 

“Much of him I sense in you,” the Master explained calmly.  “Holding onto him you are.  Afraid to let go.”

 

Obi-Wan’s jaws clenched.  “My attachment to Qui-Gon in no way affects my ability to carry out my missions or to lead my battalion.”

 

“Trust my judgment you must,” Yoda said answered.  “Good for you this war is not.”

 

“ _Good for me?_ ” Obi-Wan repeated, suppressing a scoff.  “I don’t think war is ‘good for’ anyone, Master Yoda.”

 

“But particularly harmful it has been and will be for _you._   Already I can sense—and _see_ —how it has changed you.  Damaged your mind it has.”

 

“Well,” said Obi-Wan, sitting up a little taller, “it is also ‘particularly harmful’ to the thousands of men, women, and children who have lost _everything they have_.  Entire systems have been all but wiped out.  Planets that were people’s _homes_ are now uninhabitable, destroyed by bombing and warfare, reduced to wastelands, ash.  Innocent people—civilians—have lost their homes, their loved ones, their families, everything.” 

 

Yoda opened his mouth.  Before he could speak, Obi-Wan sharply continued, “Not only civilians but the Republic’s soldiers as well.  More than half the clones we originally deployed from Kamino have already lost their lives.  Others have lost limbs, organs, half their bodies, brain and nerve functions, the ability to move, the ability to _think._

 

“War is horrible for everyone, Master Yoda.  None of us want to watch our soldiers and friends and innocent people be slaughtered like animals.  None of us _want to_ fight, but it’s come to that.  I have a duty to the Jedi Order, to the Republic, and to my troops, and I will be there with them on every mission, every battle field, every second until this war is won.”

 

Silence sank over the room once more.  It condensed and soured in Obi-Wan’s gut, as regret descended upon his heart and Yoda’s gaze cut into him like a blade, past his shields, straight into his mind.  “Commendable is your courage, Obi-Wan,” Yoda began slowly, “as is your dedication to your soldiers.  However...”  His voice became low and solemn.  “...much anger I sense in you.  Much fear.  Much _darkness_...”  

 

Obi-Wan lowered his head, trapped between guilt and fear.  He was breathing heavily, struggling to calm his lungs, his heart. 

 

“The path to the Dark Side such feelings are.” 

 

Obi-Wan looked up suddenly.  “Master, I wouldn’t...  I would _never_ ,” he stammered.  He seemed confident, but still there was fear in his words.  “I would die before I turned to the Dark Side.”  

 

“Underestimate the power of the Dark Side take caution to not.  Able to fall even the strongest Jedi amongst us are.  Closer to the Darkness, _you_ grow every day.  Dangerous it has become for you, and for those around you.”

 

 Obi-Wan swallowed.  “I understand, Master,” he whispered.  “But I promise, I won’t let that happen.  I will resist whatever temptations I face.  I swear it.  I just...”  His eyes flicked away again, and he muttered, “...I can’t leave the Order.  That will only make things worse, _a lot_ worse...  Please, Master?”   

 

Yoda sighed.  “To _Naboo_ this new mission will require you to go.”  Obi-Wan stomach clenched.  Yoda gazed at him, a knowingly gleam in his wise eyes, and raised his brow.  “ _Handle that,_ you think you could?”  

 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan answered without hesitating, but his jaw barely moved.  “I promise you, Master.  I will not fail.” 

_...again._

“Hm.”  Yoda’s forehead wrinkled into a thoughtful frown.  “A wise decision I believe this is not.  Great danger put your in it will.  However...”  Obi-Wan held his breath.  “...a Master Healer will come to see you.  If pass this medical examination you do, on this mission we will permit you to go.”

 

Obi-Wan released the air in his lungs.  “Thank you, Master Yoda,” he said in a grateful whimper.  “Thank you so much.”

 

“Passed you have not yet,” Yoda reminded him with a gentle smile.  The hover chair lowered to the floor, and the old Jedi Master got to his feet.  Using his gimer stick as a crutch, he made his way for door. 

Within the next ten minutes (everything happened so fast he barely had time to get nervous), Obi-Wan had changed into a paper-thin gown that alone made him feel vulnerable and exposed, he was ordered to lie down on his back on the table, and a Twi’lek healer woman with a cloudy blue, almost grey, complexation was leaning over him.  Her face was like stone, cold, hard, emotionless—at times, she looked more like a statue than a living being—and she soon proved as friendly as the rock she resembled.  She barely spoke a word unless it was to firmly tell him to roll over so she could see his back, breathe deep so she could hear his lungs, don’t breathe at all: it’s interfering with the scans, provide his arm so she could jab him with needles, etc.  The examination quickly proved to be more than Obi-Wan had bargained for, when the healer, Master Rosa Vir-Di, whom Obi-Wan had not directly interacted with until now (he couldn’t decide if that made this easier or a lot worse), was running tests, taking blood, thoroughly examining every inch of his poorly-clothed body. 

 

“I thought this was a metal screening,” Obi-Wan muttered uncomfortably, when it became apparent to him that Master Vir-Di had seen him closer to naked than any women in the galaxy.  

 

“It is,” she answered in an impatient manner.  “However, the mind has an incredible effect on the body.  Everything physical is a reflection or the mental.  You should know this, being a Jedi.”

 

His teeth clenched together, as long cold fingers danced over his torso.  He stared at the white ceiling above him, wondering what in the galaxy this could accomplish as her hands probed at his abdomen.  She pulled his gown up higher to expose more of his chest. 

 

“Where did these cuts come?”

 

He lifted his head off the table and look down to see which she was referring to.  Three swollen gashes, now scabbed and healing over, marked his upper ribcage.  “The war,” he said flatly, as if he thought it was a senseless question to be asked. 

 

“Do you remember how it happened?”

 

He frowned. “Why?” 

 

“Knight Kenobi,” she snapped, her voice suddenly sharp and harsh, “please make this easier for both of us, and answer my questions.  Do not argue with me.”

 

“I don’t remember, no.”

 

Her eyes met his.  The incredulous look on her icy face announced that she did not believe it.  “You don’t remember?” 

 

A quick flash of annoyance—or anger—was visible in the Knight’s eyes.  “When you’re on a battlefield and all around you people are dying, you don’t pay much attention to little scratches like that.”

 

Vir-Di momentarily halted her work to glare—maybe not quite “glare” but frigidly gaze—at the young Jedi.  Her eyes narrowed as she inspected him, as if trying to read him, note every clue he gave her, dissect his mind. 

 

He looked away and fixed his eyes on the ceiling, uncomfortably aware of her gaze on him.  Vir-Di went back to her work without a word.  She pulled the waistband of his underwear down lower on his hips.  Obi-Wan tensed, his face heating in embarrassment, and wondered if this was as awkward for her as it was from him.  Judging by her blunt, indifferent attitude… he highly doubted it.

 

“You’re thin,” Vir-Di remarked, noting the distinct line of his hip bones.  “You’ve lost weight since your physical last year.  What’s your diet been like?”

 

“Fine,” Obi-Wan answered with a weak shrug.   _Although I usually throw up anything I manage to get down._

“Any changes in your appetite?”

_Why don’t you go live a few months on the front lines and see how it affects your appetite?_ “Not that I’ve noticed.” 

 

She replied in a grunt that expressed some degree of disbelief.  However, at the moment, Obi-Wan’s eating habits were not her primary concern.  “What are these here?”

 

“What are wh—”

 

“These.”  She tapped two fingers against his thigh—thick, leathery slashes of scar tissue.  “You have a lot of scars on your legs, both of them.”

 

Obi-Wan laid his head back on the table so he was looking at white paint instead of her.   “I know.  I have a lot of scars all over me, from missions and the war and such.” 

 

“Do you remember how you got _these_ scars?” she pressed.  

 

There was a brief silence.  Obi-Wan stared at the ceiling, gathering his thoughts.   “It was during the battle of Geonosis.  A Nexu in the arena scratched me.  Well... _attacked me,_ I should say.”

 

Vir-Di stopped and looked at him, directly in his eyes.  “Is that the truth, Knight Kenobi?”

 

He stared back at her, his brow slowly creasing into a frown.  If before he could pretend he didn’t know why she kept asking about the marks on his body, it was far past obvious now.  “Of course, it’s the truth...” he answered quietly. 

 

Master Vir-Di did not respond.  For several seconds longer, she gazed deeply into his eyes, searching for any sign of deceit, any hint of dishonesty.... 

 

Finally, she looked away.     

 

“How have you been sleeping?” she asked.  She pulled down his gown over his chest and stomach.  Obi-Wan relaxed slightly.  Just having something to cover him, even a little bit, somehow made him feel more secure. 

 

“As well as ever,” he calmly lied.

 

Vir-Di walked to the front of the bed, apparently finished scrutinizing his body (he hoped), so she could easily see his face.  She crossed her arms over her long medical robes and looked carefully into his eyes.  “Do you dream ever?”

 

Obi-Wan looked away for less than a second.  “Sometimes,” he murmured, shrugging faintly. 

 

“Bad dreams?  Nightmares?”  

 

 _Every night._ “Not often.” 

 

She moved a step closer.  “And when you do have nightmares, what are they about?”

 

_Qui-Gon._

Always Qui-Gon.  Every night, every day.  How many times had he watched—and would he watch—Qui-Gon die? 

The war.  

 

His soldiers. 

 

Their faces twisting into inhuman expressions of agony.  Their face cold, white, still.  Eyes like glass, gazing into a smoke-strangled sky they could not see.  Pale, blue, breathless lips.  Their wounds.  Their blood, no longer in their bodies.  What was left of their corpses. 

 

He watched them die, each one of them, again and again and again.    

 

“The battles, I suppose,” he muttered at length. 

 

She nodded as if this is what she expected.  “How often do you dream about the battles, Knight Kenobi?  More than every other night?” 

 

“No,” Obi-Wan denied immediately—although it _was_ more than every other night.  It was _every_ night, multiple times a night, multiple times a day, every time he closed his eyes, every time he fell asleep, sometimes when he was still awake. 

 

“How often do you think?”

 

“Once or twice a month maybe.” 

 

Vir-Di sighed.  She did not believe him.  It was obvious by the frustrated—and, yet... also sympathetic, maybe even compassionate—cloud in her eyes.  “Knight Kenobi, I need you to relax now while I look inside your mind.”

 

Obi-Wan’s throat twisted into a knot, and his stomach slammed against the inside of his gut.  He knew this was coming, but that did nothing to lessen his dread now.  He struggled to swallow.  She moved closer to him, leaning over him, gently pressing her hands against the sides of his head.  Already he could feel the Force buzzing against his skull, probing gently at his mind, beckoning him to open up and let Vir-Di inside.  And everything inside of Obi-Wan was screaming at him, _Don’t let her in!  Don’t let her see!  If she sees the truth, you won’t spend one more day in the Jedi Order!_

 

“Take your shields down,” she commanded.  “I will know it if you don’t.” 

 

Obi-Wan released the air from his lungs.  He closed his eyes. 

 

“There you go...”

 

Vir-Di felt the stone walls in young Knight’s mind slowly fold up like fabric.  The barriers vanished, allowing her to pass beyond, allowing her to see everything....  

 

Obi-Wan Kenobi was a master—or, perhaps, _the master_ —of mind manipulation.  Who could have expected that from one whose own mind was so injured and troubled?  Yet, it was a skill the young Jedi Knight had perfected like no other Jedi.  Qui-Gon said it was a gift. 

 

“I’ve never known any Jedi to do mind-tricks they way you do, Obi-Wan,” he could still hear Qui-Gon’s voice in his head, as if he was speaking to him at this very moment.  He said this almost 20 years ago.  “It’s not something that can be taught.  It’s a gift from the Force.  Use it wisely.  And, always remember, use it when your _heart_ tells you to.  That is most important.”

 

Obi-Wan was not sure what his heart was telling him to do (it was beating so wildly he could barely think over the noise).  He was not sure if this constituted as using his gift “wisely.” But he did it anyway, because he was so scared, and he could not dare to imagine what would happen if he didn’t.

 

He took down the shield barriers encasing his mind, just as Vir-Di ordered him.  However, he pushed everything he did not want her to see—all the pain, fear, Darkness—into a solitary corner of his mind, and he buried it there.  He put up a new shield, one she could not detect, and blockaded that single alcove, as if sealing it behind bricks.  It was concealed by the Force and by darkness.  Vir-Di searched through his head, and she saw everything he left in the open, everything he allowed her to see. 

 

... And, to her astonishment, she saw only Light.  Calm.  Peace within the Force. 

 

...

 

“Well, Rosa?” Yoda asked a short time later, when he and Master Vir-Di were alone behind the closed door of a separate med-bay.  “A conclusion you have come to?”

 

Vir-Di sighed.  She gazed pensively across the room and shook her head.  “Speaking to him, I thought for sure he was lying to me.  He’s good at hiding his feelings—obviously, all the Masters know that—but, even still, I could tell he was in pain.  I could sense it; I could see it in his eyes.  But when I looked in his mind...”  She shook her head again, her brows gathering a frown.  “...it was as if there was... nothing wrong with him.”

 

Yoda’s eyes brightened in surprise. 

 

Vir-Di eyes shifted to gaze at loss at the wise Jedi Master.  “He seemed... perfectly sound.” 

 

“Hm.”  Yoda’s expression hardened.  Grave contemplation set like grey clouds over his mind.  “Very _usual_ this is.  Even today, sense unrest in him _I_ could.  _Darkness._ ” 

 

“I sensed no Darkness in him, Master Yoda,” Vir-Di replied, shaking her head.

 

Yoda was silent a moment.  He looked carefully at the healer before gingerly suggesting, “Perhaps... clouded your perception was?” 

 

She shook her head.  “Impossible.  He took down his shields, and I could see straight into his head.  He’s been through a lot, Master Yoda, we all know that.  He has suffered great loss.  He is hurt, but he is not unstable.”

 

Yoda sighed heavily.  “What then, do you suggest we do, Master Healer?”    

 

She opened a palm.  “If he isn’t a danger, there is no reason to prevent him from carrying out his duties in the Jedi Order.”

 

Yoda closed his eyes.  He shook his head slowly.  “Yes,” he agreed at last.  His voice was soft and grave.  “...that is what from the beginning I feared.” 

 

Less than 24 hours later (the Sun was setting over Coruscant, and the sky was vibrant orange), Obi-Wan was in a Republic spacecraft, headed toward Naboo. 

 

 


	3. Complications

**WARNING: _Graphic depictions of war-related death and injury!_ Some images and descriptions may be disturbing to some readers.  Themes of death, slavery, and physical abuse.  Mental illness, depression, PTSD.  References to/contemplation of self-harm and suicide. **

 

 

Imperfect

Chapter 3: Complications  

 

 _Pain_ rang in his ears—sharp, shrill, inhuman screaming—and throbbed relentlessly in his skull.  Dust, sand, smoke swirled around his face, blew into his eyes.  He drew in a desperate gulp of air, and toxic fumes rushed into his lungs, burning his throat and chest.  Darkness caved in on his eyes.  He couldn’t see.  He couldn’t stay awake—

 

“Master!” he screamed, his voice high in terror.  Then he was running toward a pale body, lying still on a white marble floor, in a swamp of dark red. 

 

He coughed.  Pain tore through his chest, his abdomen, his whole body.  He was choking, gagging—on smoke or vomit or blood.  It hurt.  His whole body hurt, ached, _screamed_....  

 

“You’ll be alright,” his own voice whimpered, but it seemed distant, spoken by someone else far away.He watched trembling hands, coated in slick, sticky scarlet, brush ashen cheeks that were rapidly draining of life, becoming as pale and as cold as ice.  “A med-team is coming.  They’ll take care of you, they’ll fix you, you... you’ll be alright....”

 

“Obi-Wan…” 

 

Even now, a smile tugged at the man’s pallid lips.  His hand—weak, cold—touched his padawan’s cheek.  “It’s too late,” he whispered.  “It’s too late for that...” 

 

“No,” a terrified whimper fell through quivering lips.  “No!”  Then he was screaming. His voice cracked with his heart, shattered the like broken glass that would be his life from that moment forward.  Shattered.  Too broken to be repaired.  “You’ll be alright, Master!  You have to be!  Please… Please don’t go.  I need you…”

 

“Be strong, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said softly.  He coughed—fluid rattled in his chest, a red spray wet his white lips.  He wasted his last breath to whisper, “I’m so proud of you.” 

 

And that was it. 

 

His body stilled.  His eyes stared at Obi-Wan, but they were not blinking.  A thin film formed over his eyes.  The smile faded from his lips. 

 

“No! No, Master, please don’t...  Don’t go, don’t leave me!”  He stared at the still body in his arms, the blood draining from the hole in his breathless chest, soaking them both.  The world was caving in around him, burying him alive.  He couldn’t see.  He couldn’t breathe.  He was drowning.  Trapped underwater, black waves sloshing above him, dark crimson spreading around him.  

 

Agony worse than any he had ever experienced, worse than he thought possible, ripped him apart like the claws of a wild beast.  It was like acid in his veins, searing his flesh, charming his insides.  His heart melted like hot wax in his chest, bleeding, burning, blistering, boiling.  Sobs tore through him with each wave of agony.  Tears streaked unsurpassed down his face. 

 

“I’m s-sorry, Master,” the padawan choked through sobs.  He pressed his face against his Master’s chest, soaking himself in hot, thick blood.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” 

 

But no matter how many times he said he was sorry, he would never feel forgiveness.  Not from the Force.  Not from himself.  No matter how many times he begged the Force for another chance, there are no second chances.  Qui-Gon was dead.  His master, his father, whom he had loved more than the Order, more than the galaxy... was dead.  Dead, dead, dead.  Dead because of Obi-Wan, the headstrong, stubborn, stupid padawan who had failed his Master for the last time. 

 

Sharp pain twisted in his belly. 

 

His insides tightened, his chest, his throat.

 

Another jab of pain. 

 

His head ached, his whole body ached.  

 

A weak groan slipped through dry lips.  His eyes opened slowly, weakly….  The air hit them like smoke, making them burn, making them leak. 

 

He blinked.  Everything was dark.  Ghostly shapes shifted and warped within the shadow.  A dim orange glow, almost like firelight, flickered dimly somewhere beyond his vision as if it was about to blow out.  His head spun.   Black spots floated in front of his eyes.  Through darkness, blurriness, dizziness, a sand-cement ceiling loomed only a few feet above his face.   Briefly, his eyes shifted and took in what appeared to be a small crowded hut.  Dark, dirty.  Rough, gravelly walls, claustrophobically low ceiling, encasing him like a tomb…. 

 

There was something in the Force.  Another presence.  And strong.  Stronger than any presence he had sensed before.  So strong it made his already-throbbing head split.  It was a lifetime of pain, unrelenting, unpitying; unnumbered years of hatred, condensing layer by layer, building, boiling up until soon it would erupt in an inferno like the mountains of Mustafar; and Darkness, a power in the Force so strong and so dark it might have rivaled the Sith Lord, himself.  And, still, through it all… goodness.

 

A knife plunged deep into his stomach.

 

At least, it felt that way.  The sudden, sharp, screaming pain.  A strangled cry broke through his lips.  He jerked backward, his hand shooting to grab at his belly. 

 

“Easy!” an unfamiliar voice warned from somewhere close beside him.

 

A hand—the skin rough and leathery, dry, calloused, scarred, and yet at the same time remarkably gentle—fell upon his bare chest.  His body jolted, his head snapped around—chest heaving, heart thundering upon his eardrums.  His hand closed around the wrist of his assailant, with enough force and strength to snap his wrist.  A single twist of his muscles and the bone would break.  

 

He was staring into a pair of dark blue eyes that appeared just as scared as he was. 

 

“I’m trying to help you!” the boy exclaimed, anger to conceal his fear.  A youthful, handsome face, sun-scarred skin and tanned and burned by merciless heat, rosy lips browned, dry, cracking, scabbing, and bleeding, long bronze curls bleached blonde by the sun, wide eyes, once bright with life but now burdened by pain, darkened by suffering staring anxiously at Obi-Wan.  “You’re hurt, I’m just trying to help!” 

 

Obi-Wan stared into the young face before him.  His grip loosened slightly, but he did not let go.  “Where am I?” he demanded through clenched teeth. 

 

“Mos Espa,” the boy answered without hesitating.  “...Tatooine.”

 

What?  Tatooine?  What in the blazes was he doing _here?!_   He was heading to Naboo…

 

“Apparently your ship crashed.  I found you unconscious in a wreckage in the middle of the desert.” 

 

Oh…  Yes.  Foggy memories surfaced in his mind….  The last thing he remembered he was comming Coruscant to tell the Master that he had run into some complications—meaning, a swarm of Separatist war ships was right behind him, unleashing a hell hail of missiles and torpedoes at him.  “Damn,” Obi-Wan muttered into his com, as he watched a fiery blue blast take the wing of his ship clean off.  Then the ship was plunging in a smoking, spiraling dive toward the only planet he could hope to land.  He could not remember hitting the surface. 

 

“You’re pretty banged up,” the boy continued, “but it’s nothing that won’t heal.  I’ve seen a lot worse.” 

 

Obi-Wan’s hand slackened around the boy’s wrist.  The boy quickly drew it away, discretely releasing his breath. 

 

Obi-Wan’s rigid body relaxed very slightly.  He looked down to see what the stranger was doing to him.  He was lying on his back on the dirt-coated floor, a balled-up blanket serving as a pillow for his head, his previously-white trousers dusty brown now, torn and ripped, stained by dirt and blood, unclothed from the waist up, his bare chest heaving, exposed skin sleek in a layer of cold sweat.  Fresh cuts and bruises had been added to the patchwork covering his entire body.  The leg of his trousers had been rolled up, and his ankle was wrapped thickly in bandages.

 

The boy cautiously watched Obi-Wan, as he dared moved his hand back toward the injured man’s stomach.  There was a particularly gruesome gash in the lower left side of his belly.  Dark, deep, caked in what looked like a mixture of dirt and blood.

 

“I’m almost finished,” he muttered.  “Just cleaning it.”  He glanced at Obi-Wan again to make sure he was not going to spontaneously lash out and attack him and returned silently to his work.  Obi-Wan’s insides clenched queasily, as he watched meticulous hands (which, he realized for the first time, were smeared red) take up a thin metal pinching tool.  The muscles in his stomach tensed as the boy touched his wound.  He used two fingers to, as gently as he could, spread the wound open—a spout of hot blood rushed forth—and he slid the instrument into the wound.

 

A burst of agony.  A wave or darkness crashed over him, suffocating him drowning him.  He was going to pass out. 

 

—He pulled a sharp fragment of metal out of the wound. 

 

Obi-Wan’s head fell back on the bundled cloth under his head.  He tried to focus on accepting the pain and releasing it into the Force, like all Jedi were taught to do, but he found himself gasping for breath, closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, digging his nails into his palms until they bled, clinging to the Force like a child to his security-blanket, doing anything just to get through….

 

“Sorry I don’t have anything for the pain,” the young man grumbled, head lowered and eyes fixed on his task as he gingerly removed the last pieces of debris and fragmented metal from the wound.  He glanced up, guilt and regret obvious in his eyes, but Obi-Wan couldn’t answer him.  

 

He tossed the tweezers to the side, and they were quickly replaced by a rag pressed tightly against the wound to stop the blood-flow.  The air in Obi-Wan’s lungs shot up into his throat, where it choked him, at the newly applied pressure, the painful weight on his wound.  “Sorry,” the boy mumbled again.  “I know it hurts…”  

 

Obi-Wan kept his eyes closed.  He exhaled a short but heavy breath through his nose, and again as he struggled to morph his agony into the Force.  The stranger gently lifted the bandage and brushed some sort of soothing ointment over the incision.  

 

Obi-Wan released a deep sigh.  “Thank you…” he breathed, his clenched muscles relaxing and sweat breaking over his body.  He opened his eyes and looked to see his apparent savior. 

 

The boy did not meet his eyes.  “No problem,” he muttered.  His jaw was tense as he spoke, and his words seemed to sneak out between his teeth.  He dipped his fingers into the cream and applied it to several more cuts on Obi-Wan’s torso.  “It was nothing.” 

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Anakin,” he answered without glancing up.

 

“Thank you,” said Obi-Wan genuinely, “for helping me, Anakin.  I am in your debt.”

 

Anakin shook his head.  “Don’t worry about it.  It gave me an excuse to get out of the fields.”

 

“You’re a moisture farmer?”

 

Anakin’s lips tightened into something that resembled a bitter false-smile.  He hesitated.  Tense silence fell between them.  “I’m just a worker,” he grumbled at length, and before Obi-Wan could question him any further he quickly asked, “How do you feel?”  He dipped a rag into a bucket of warm, pink-tinged water, rung it out, and dabbed it against Obi-Wan’s forehead.  Even that soft touch, the light brush of fabric against what felt like a massive lump forming on his forehead made pain shoot through his skull and his mind whirl.  “Looks like you hit your head pretty hard.  There was blood all in your hair when I found you.”

 

Obi-Wan’s eyes shifted to stare at the rouge cement above him.  He wasn’t much in the mood to think about blood (there was enough of it staining his body and scarring his mind), so he brushed off the comment with a weak shrug.  “I’ve been through worse.  I’ll survive.”  He glanced at Anakin and, feeling obliged, added, “...thanks to you.” 

 

Once again, Anakin shrugged off Obi-Wan’s gratitude.  “It’s the least I can do,” he murmured quietly, maybe somewhat bitterly.  “It’s a privilege to serve someone like you.”

 

Obi-Wan frowned.  “Someone like me?” he repeated.  He raised his head to fix a baffled and serious gaze on the young stranger.  “What do you mean by that, ‘someone like you?’”

 

“I...” 

 

Anakin’s eyes darted away.  His face flushed, as if in embarrassment or fear.  He was afraid.  Suddenly, Obi-Wan could sense it.  Force.  It was unbelievable, almost impossible, how strong this boy’s signature was in the Force.  How could any one being possess so much power?—and without even realizing it?  Anakin’s emotions screamed themselves in Obi-Wan’s head.  He could practically feel them as if they were his own.  _Why?_    That was so strange, and so... unsettling.  The only other person whose emotions he could feel this strongly was his own Master’s, Qui-Gon.... 

 

Anakin’s hands automatically gathered up his tools (they were not really medical tools but tools for building and fixing mechanics, usually speeders or droids).   He wrapped them into a bundle of cloth and placed them down in the corner where he kept them, behind the water bucket, safe from prying eyes.  He swallowed slowly, dryly.  “I know you’re a Jedi,” he finally mumbled, so quietly and so unclearly Obi-Wan almost misinterpreted it. 

 

“What?”  Obi-Wan’s face creased in greater surprise and shock.  Despite the protest of his aching, burning body, he strained his weakened muscles and sat up.  Anakin stiffened.  Obi-Wan moving from a lying to a sitting position seemed to make him suddenly uncomfortable, as if he felt... threatened.  “How?  What made you think that?”

 

Anakin looked at his hands, nervously tracing the cuts on his knuckles with one thumb.  “I recognized the robes you were wearing.  I met a Jedi once before, when I was a kid.”  He glanced at Obi-Wan.  “You are a Jedi, aren’t you?”

 

Obi-Wan’s jaws clenched.  He doubted there was a being in the galaxy who had failed to recognize the obscene bounty the Separatists were offering for any Jedi turned over to them, dead or alive.  His first reflex was to deny it, to trust no one, but reason told him this man would have killed him while he was unconscious if he had any intention of that, and his heart told him Anakin did not plan to betray him.  “Yes,” he decided to be honest. 

 

Anakin nodded.  “I have your lightsaber.”

 

What?  Force, his lightsaber!  His hand shot reflexively—and senselessly—to his hip, where he fumbled with the empty space where his belt and lightsaber should have been.  His heart dropped.  He looked up suddenly, wide eyes staring at Anakin as if he feared this was a trap after all.

 

Anakin’s back was turned to him.  He had crawled to the other side of the room (a human of Anakin’s height could not comfortably stand in this crammed place, the ceiling was so low) and pulled the deadly weapon, deactivated and hidden within its metal hilt, out from a tattered blanket stretched across the floor.  “Here it is,” he said turning back to the Jedi. 

 

Obi-Wan watched him carefully as he approached and held the saber out to him, his body on edge and ready to react at any second.  However, Anakin only stood there, a gleam of something new (maybe... a shadow or a memory of happiness?) glowing his eyes, as he waited for the Jedi to reclaim his weapon. 

 

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said tensely.  He reached out to take his saber, his senses still sharpened, expecting an attack, anything....  His hand closed around the hilt, and he snatched his lightsaber quickly into his possession.

 

Anakin smiled—he actually _smiled—_ as if the greatest honor in the galaxy was to present a Jedi with his weapon. 

 

“...for, uh...” Obi-Wan awkwardly added, hoping Anakin had not noticed his distrust.  “...keeping it safe for me.”

 

“Of course,” Anakin said with a nod, a faint smile still lingering on his lips.  “It was a pleasure.”

 

“I, uh...”  Obi-Wan searched the hut around him.  His robes (or what was left of them) were rolled up against the wall beside him, his belt wrapped carefully inside.  He reached for his belt and secured his saber in its holder.  “I thank you again for your help, Anakin.  I will repay you if I can...”

 

Any trace of a smile dropped from Anakin’s lips and left not a trace behind, as if it had never been there at all.  “You can’t leave now, not tonight,” he protested, fear suddenly notable in his voice and in the Force.     

 

Obi-Wan looked up at him.  His expression hardened into a stony mask.  His eyes narrowed and darkened in suspicion.  “Why?” he challenged, his tone even but cold. 

 

“Because you’re _hurt!_ ” Anakin exclaimed.  “You’ve lost a lot of blood, and you shouldn’t be traveling after you hit your head like that, and I think your ribs could be broken, and those cuts could get infected!  You should stay here tonight.  You need to rest.” 

 

Obi-Wan’s hand closed around the hilt of his lightsaber.  His teeth clenched together, and they must have grazed the inside of his cheek, because a sharp metallic taste bled into his mouth.  “I appreciate the offer,” he answered carefully, “but I have to leave.  I’m supposed to be on Naboo right now.”

 

“Naboo?”  Anakin frowned.  “With all due respect, Master Jedi, how do you plan on getting to Naboo when your ship’s been destroyed?”

 

Oh.  Right.  Obi-Wan had not thought of that.  (Maybe the impact to his head had worse effects than he originally realized.)   “...I... suppose the ship is not flyable now?”

 

Anakin gave a humorless laugh.  “Not a chance.  The ship completely lost one of its wings—” 

 

Oh, yes, he forgot about that as well.

 

“—and what is left of it is all bent and crushed.” 

 

“Right.”  Obi-Wan looked down, sighing thinly, obvious contemplation in his eyes.  “Hm.” 

 

“Please stay here tonight, Master?” Anakin practically begged him. 

 

Obi-Wan’s brows knitted warily together once more as he beheld Anakin.  “Why do you want me to stay?”

 

“Because you’re hurt,” Anakin repeated himself, as if that was the only possible answer and he did not understand why the Jedi kept asking him that, “and I want to make sure you are alright. It’s...”  Anakin looked away.  His cheeks colored slightly, and he added, “It’s not every day I get to help a Jedi... or even see one...”  He swallowed hard.  Absently watching his finger trace circles in the dirt that coated the floor, he muttered, “Apparently I’m Force-sensitive, Master.  Did you know that?  I always... well, I always hoped I could be a Jedi...  I know I’m too old now, but if you’ll let me help you....”  

 

Obi-Wan’s frigid heart, encased by a shield of ice, softened when the man—the _boy_ —spoke these soft words.  _Listen to your heart,_ Qui-Gon told him, and now his heart told him he could trust Anakin.  —Which was strange.  He was not sure he had fully trusted anyone in years.  It was hard to trust anyone nowadays, or to care about anyone or anything.  He knew now what kind of damage attachment was capable of. 

 

He sighed.   His tense body relaxed, and his fingers slipped away from his lightsaber. 

 

Anakin glanced up, an anxious gleam in his eyes.  Obi-Wan’s expression was soft now.  He managed a smile.  “Alright.”  His voice was quiet, and the gentlest Anakin had heard him speak.  “I’ll stay tonight.”  Anakin sighed heavily in relief.  “Thank you, Anakin—”

 

“Thank you, Master!” Anakin exclaimed at the same time. 

 

Obi-Wan’s smile became, very slightly, brighter, realer.  “Thank you, Anakin.  And you can call me Obi-Wan.”

 

“Master Obi-Wan,” Anakin repeated with a faint smile.  He nodded.  “Alright.  Thank you, Obi-Wan.”

 

“For letting you save my life?”

 

Anakin’s grin widened, and, to Obi-Wan surprise, he actually laughed.  “Yeah, sure, you could put it that way.”

 

Obi-Wan chuckled. 

 

Wait.

 

He was _laughing?_    Obi-Wan was shocked by the quiet murmur of laughter that came from his own throat.  He could not remember the last time he laughed.  He wasn’t sure he had laughed since... since the war began.  No, since Qui-Gon died.  Why, what was it about this man, this young boy Anakin, that provoked him to smile again?  Actually made it possible to _laugh_ again?  

 

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin said, oblivious of Obi-Wan meditation.

 

Obi-Wan looked up.  “Yes?”  

 

“I met a Jedi when I was a kid,” he said again, a comment that surprised Obi-Wan but he barely paid attention to before.  “Do you think you might know him?  Since you’re a Jedi?” 

 

“It’s possible,” Obi-Wan said.  “Do you know his name?”

 

Anakin nodded enthusiastically.  “Of course!  I’d never forget _him._   He is the only person who ever tried to hel—”  He stopped himself.  He looked down, eyes momentarily flickering away from Obi-Wan, and seemed to reconsider.   “He is the only Jedi I’ve ever met,” he said instead. 

 

Obi-Wan nodded.  He knew what Anakin was going to say, and it provoked so many questions but also so many answers.  He knew Anakin was in need of help.  That he was suffering.  He knew what it was like to suffer.  He forced a weak smile.  “I understand,” he said kindly.  “Who is the Jedi?”

 

Anakin returned a weak nod, grateful that Obi-Wan had not pushed him to say more.  “Master Qui-Gon Jinn.” 

 


	4. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO UPDATE!!!! This story is dedicated to my friend, RiddleMeEvil, and I started writing it for her birthday in AUGUST!!!! Luckily, she's an amazing friend and still loves me. Love you so much, sweetheart! xoxox 
> 
> Also thanks so much to all my readers! Thanks for your support and for reading, even though the wait was so long. 
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment. Feeback and constructive criticism is always welcome! Thanks! :)

**WARNING: _Graphic depictions of war-related death and injury!_ Some images and descriptions may be disturbing to some readers.  Themes of death, slavery, and physical abuse.  Mental illness, depression, PTSD.  References to/contemplation of self-harm and suicide. **

 

Imperfect

Chapter 4: Ghosts

Obi-Wan did not react.

Not externally. 

His face remained a calm mask.  Eyes shaded windows through which nothing could be seen.  Anakin could not have guessed the tempest of emotions that crashed on Obi-Wan like an unannounced tidal-wave.  Drowned him.  Crushed him. 

His throat went as dry as the scorching desert sands.  His chest tightened; he couldn’t breathe.  Something clamped down on his heart and sliced straight through it.  It ached and bled, like the physical wounds in his flesh now.   

His lips parted.  A careful breath passed through them. “You met Qui-Gon?”  His voice revealed nothing.

Anakin perked up a bit more.  “You know him?”  

Obi-Wan’s mouth opened.  A calm, cold voice he barely recognized answer for him, “Yes.  He was my master.” 

“Really!?” Anakin cried.  Joy burst visibly, like sun-flares, in his eyes.  “Can I... Do you think I could talk to him!?  Please?  I won’t be a lot of trouble, I swear, I just want to see him again.” 

Obi-Wan stared him.  He exhaled through his nose, jaws clenched, face like stone.  “You can’t see him.” 

Anakin’s face dropped.  The hope that glittered in his eyes a moment before vanished, and they were left dark and despairing.  “But...” he stammered hesitantly.  He clearly was not expecting this response.  After everything he had done to help this Jedi, after how kind Obi-Wan had acted so far, after a lifetime of admiring and glorifying the Jedi, Anakin was shocked this man would deny him such a simple request.  “...but I thought...” 

“He died.” 

Anakin closed his mouth.  He stared at Obi-Wan.  Confusion and anger crumbled into heartbreak.  “He...” the boy began softly—as if he was afraid to say it, afraid he might have heard correctly.  “He... _died?_ ” 

Obi-Wan looked away.  He stared at the dusty floor.  Shame—an impossible weight—held his head down.  He opened his lips to answer but found he had no voice.  He managed a nod. 

Anakin stared at the Jedi, raw horror in his eyes.  He could not believe it.  He could barely convince his stubborn mind to process, to believe it.  “ _How!?_ ” he gasped at last.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered up.  He glanced at Anakin for a fraction of a second.  “We were under attack,” he whispered.  “Qui-Gon was fighting a Sith Lord and I...”  Obi-Wan blinked his eyes hard.  Blinked back emotions that wanted to become tears, memories that wanted to blind him.  Nightmares that desired to haunt him during the day.  He forced them out of his mind—at least, into a corner where they could be contained and, for a while, hidden. 

A knot twisted in Obi-Wan’s ribcage, strangled his heart.  But his face was a mask.  “I didn’t get there in time.”

Hot wind blew through cracks in the walls.  They watched dust swirl in circles across the floor. 

“He was a good person,” Anakin whispered.  “He tried to help me.”  Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin.  Anakin averted his eyes.  “He said I was strong with the Force.  And he wanted to train me to be a Jedi.”  A half-bitter, half-happy smile flashed on Anakin’s dry, cracked lips.  “He told Watto, my mast—”

The boy stopped.  His face paled.  His cheeks flushed, with regret, embarrassment, shame.  His eyes darted to look at Obi-Wan—wide blue eyes full of panic and fear—and immediately darted away. 

Obi-Wan stared at him.  Understanding sank over his heart like a weighty shadow.  “You’re a slave,” he realized, a note of sorrow in his voice.  

Anakin forced himself to look at the Jedi.  He managed a weak nod.  “Yeah.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Anakin looked away, partially relieved this information did not seem to induce hatred and disgust in the Jedi but nonetheless ashamed of himself.  He shrugged weakly.  “It is what it is.”  Anakin was silent a moment before he added, “And it’s my own fault.”

Obi-Wan frowned.  “Why is it your fault?”

He glanced at Obi-Wan.  The Jedi could see the pain, the guilt in Anakin’s eyes.  “Your master bet _his ship_ on a pod-race.  If I won, I got to be free.  And I would be a Jedi, instead of a slave.”  He laughed humorlessly.  He looked down and finished with difficulty, “I lost.”

They were stranded on Tatooine, their hyperdrive damaged and ship unflyable.  Qui-Gon went to the nearest town—Mos Espa—to look for help, and Obi-Wan stayed with the ship.  Within hours, Obi-Wan had received _multiple_ transmissions from his anxious, almost frenzied, Master, who swore again and again that he had found the Chosen One.  The one the prophecies spoke of, the one destined to bring balance to the Force, the legend, the savior, a slave, a child.  Even with Qui-Gon’s assurance, a blood sample with an extraordinarily high midi-chlorian count, and the boy’s incredible Force-sensitivity, Obi-Wan was not convinced.

Qui-Gon bet everything they had to spare on the pod-race: if the child won, he won his freedom.  Then the boy would accompany them back to Coruscant, where Qui-Gon hoped to train him to be a Jedi.  The boy did not win.  Qui-Gon tried—restlessly—to free him after that, but he had nothing left to spare, and Obi-Wan was frankly more concerned about how they were going to get off of Tatooine without a ship. 

At last, a rescue team from Naboo came by and picked them up.  When they were still on the ship, Qui-Gon said to Obi-Wan, “That boy is the Chosen One.  I’m going back to Tatooine, and I’m going to free him.  I’ll find a way.”  Qui-Gon never went back to Tatooine, and Anakin was never freed.  That same evening, Qui-Gon was killed by the Sith Lord Darth Maul. 

The death of his master tore a piece out of Obi-Wan.  A part of his heart ripped clean out of his chest.  Broken, bleeding.  Obi-Wan was left alone, with nothing but...  Greif.  Pain.  Guilt.  The knowledge that this was his fault.  He couldn’t save him—he _could have_ , but he didn’t.  He was too late.  This was his fault, this was his fault.  He did this.  

For _months_ after Qui-Gon’s death, Obi-Wan could barely find the strength to get out of bed each morning and forge some semblance of stability, sanity.  He made his face into a mask and did his best to hide the pain behind hallow eyes.  Twice, Master Yoda called him into a private meeting and urged him to admit the truth: that he was not okay.  Obi-Wan never did, of course.  (Despite Yoda’s assurance, the young Jedi feared as soon as he said it aloud, he would be kicked out of the Order and lose what little he had left.)  At length, the charade became the reality.  The mask became the man.  ...To an extent.  Obi-Wan kept going.  Pushing forward.  Pushing forward.  Trying to run away, trying to outrun the past, trying to forget— 

Always looking back.

He forgot about the slave boy—the “Chosen One”—on Tatooine. 

“I know you,” Obi-Wan said suddenly.  He stared at Anakin.  His eyes filled with a sort of wonder.  Awe overwhelmed him.  This was him!  The child!  The Chosen One!  Or, even if he wasn’t the Chosen One... he was the one Qui-Gon chose.   

Anakin looked up.  “You know me?” he repeated, utterly baffled.  “How?”

“I remember when Qui-Gon found you,” Obi-Wan eagerly explained.  For the first time, his voice sparked with excitement, hope.  “I was with the ship.  He commed me multiple times and told me about you.” 

“He did?” Anakin said, astonished.  He looked away, touched but also nervous.  “What did he say about me?”

 “He said you were strong with the Force, and...”  He paused.  “...and he wanted to help you.”

Obi-Wan looked away.  Shame flooded him.  Qui-Gon’s dying wish: to train the child, to free the slave boy Anakin.  The supposed Chosen One.  How long Obi-Wan had let that request go unanswered.  How long he had not even tried to fulfill Qui-Gon’s last request.  This was, Obi-Wan knew, merely another proof that he had failed his master.  

Yet, maybe.... maybe now.... maybe he could change that.  The Separatist attack, the ship going now, crashing on Tatooine, running into Anakin again, now....  Maybe it wasn’t an accident.  Maybe it was fate.  Maybe the Force brought them together for a reason.  Maybe this was Obi-Wan’s second chance. 

Anakin stared at the floor.  He nodded.  A long silence passed.  Hot wind blew through the hut.  The sand scattered around them, swirled and spun on the breeze and seemed to sigh as it sunk back to the floor.

“Anakin...” Obi-Wan said quietly, but with purpose.  Anakin looked up to meet his gaze.  “He was going to come back for you,” Obi-Wan promised.

“He was?” Anakin whispered.

Obi-Wan nodded.  “Yes.  But then he....”  He looked down.  He didn’t have to finish.  

“I’m sorry,” Anakin said.  Obi-Wan glanced at him.  “I’m sure that was... torture.”

“It’s my own fault,” he mumbled, so quietly Anakin almost didn’t hear him.

“What?”  Anakin looked at Obi-Wan. 

Obi-Wan’s eyes remained fixed on the sand.  Anakin saw his shame, irreversible guilt.  “I wasn’t there,” Obi-Wan murmured—although he didn’t know why.  Why was he saying this?  For _years,_ ever since Qui-Gon’s death, these thoughts—the truth—tortured him day and night, but he never expressed any of his feelings aloud.  He never said it.  He kept it concealed inside of him, hidden, secret, where the Jedi would not see it. Why was he telling Anakin, now?  Now, after he had held out, been strong, for so long.... Obi-Wan did not know, and his better judgment told him to shut his lips and say no more.  Still, he found himself adding, “I was too late....  I killed him.”

“I understand.” 

Obi-Wan looked at Anakin, more than a little surprised by his reply.

Anakin looked away.  “My mother,” he whispered.  “...was kidnapped by Tuskens.  Sand People.  I ran away to look for her.  I found her.  But... I was too late.”  Anakin blinked hard.  He forced back tears.  “I couldn’t save her.” 

He glanced at Obi-Wan.  Blue eyes, dark and deep, like midnight moonlight reflected off the surface of shadow-cloaked water, full of pain but also hope, a longing for the horizon, an eagerness to get away, to outrun his suffering, start anew... met another set of eyes, clear blue tinged green, like crystal, sprinkled with sunlight but stained with sadness, a solemn darkness, grief, an endless longing to turned back time, rewind, undo the past.  Unlike Anakin, this young Jedi was not reaching toward anything.  Everything he loved had passed, and now he simply waited for the day when he would see him again.  Anakin had lost his mother.  Yet, somehow, he had not given up as Obi-Wan had.  Somehow, he still clung to the hope there was something else yet to discover, something worth living for.

“Now, she’s gone,” Anakin said to Obi-Wan.  “But she’s with me all the time.”  They stared into each other’s eyes.  For the first time since the death of their parent (Anakin’s mother and Obi-Wan’s master, who was truly a father), it was as if there was someone else who understood.  For the first time, it was as if they were not completely alone.  “I feel her all the time,” Anakin whispered, as if terrified the ghosts would overhear him.  “I look over my shoulder and expect her to be there.  I see her.  Sometimes in nightmares, and sometimes....”

He cut himself off, afraid Obi-Wan of Obi-Wan’s reaction.  Afraid he would scorn him.  Afraid he would think he’s crazy.

“Sometimes in daymares,” Obi-Wan finished unknowingly.  Anakin’s expression changed in shock.  It was as if Obi-Wan read his mind, took the words straight from his lips.  And not only did the Jedi know, he _understood_.  “It’s like you’re dreaming, but you’re awake,” Obi-Wan went on.  “Sometimes, you hear something or see something, and it reminds you of that day, when it happened.... and it’s like it’s happening all over again.  For a minute, you think you’re there.”

Anakin closed his mouth.  He stared at Obi-Wan in awe, tears in his eyes.  He nodded slowly.  “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said.  “I understand.”

The door slammed open.  Anakin and Obi-Wan flinched at the same time.  Their heads snapped around.  They stared across the hut.  Ominous red light—the flare of a bloody sunset—filled the doorway.  A dark silhouette—an imposing and massive figure—blocked it, broad shoulders scrapping each side of the door.

Anakin scrambled to his feet.  “I was just—” he rushed to explain, stammering, his voice filled with fear.

The figure stepped forward, stormed into the hut.  The flickering orange light fell on him and illuminated the twisted and hideous face of an almost-human being.  Obi-Wan had no name for the creature.  Upon first glance, he thought it was a man, but it wasn’t.  Perhaps a rare alien species from the Outer Rim that he had not yet encountered or heard of.  Yet, he thought not.  If instinct served him correctly, this creature was both: partially human, partially beast.

He had to be at least eight-feet tall, maybe nine.  His back had to curve, his body twist and hunch just to fit into the hut.  His head scrapped the roof.  His limbs bulged with muscles meant for a larger species, his skin stretched to its thinnest just to cover them.  Massive almost-paw-like feet, large hands covered in wiry hair, long muscular fingers, claw-like nails.  Large, circular eyes, burning yellow, almost like a Sith’s.  A face like a man’s but thinner, longer, almost reptilian, like a snake.   

The beast raised its arm.  Anakin tensed.  The creature’s powerful hand stuck him across the face. 

Anakin staggered a step backward, dazed by the blow.  “WHO TOLD YOU TO LEAVE THE FIELDS!?” the creature screamed in Anakin’s face.  Before the boy could answer, he raised his hand to strike him again. 

The second blow was like a brick to the face.  A blinding light burst in Anakin’s eyes.  His ears popped.  Suddenly, he could not hear anything, expect for a sharp, piercing ring.  He legs gave out.  The next thing he knew, he was on the floor.  The Overseer towered over him, screaming at him, but Anakin could not hear what he said.  He seemed to move in slow-motion as he drew a muscle-bloated arm high over his head.  A long, snake-like whip swung and coiled in his hand.  He launched it toward the slave—

“Stop!  Don’t!” a panicked voice broke through the sound-barrier in Anakin’s ears.

The Overseer paused mid-swing.  As if struck by a bolt of lightning, the wrath of the gods, he froze dumbstruck.  The whip drew back, like a confused snake that forgot its intention mid-attack.  The creature’s eyes went completely blank, all emotion and expression wiped off his face.  For a moment, he was utterly baffled.  The moment passed.  Anger resumed in his expression and stance.  He turned his head and looked at the Jedi.

Obi-Wan looked the creature in the eyes.  He waved a hand in front of him a second time.  “Don’t beat him,” he said, this time, his voice commanding and confident. 

The Overseer’s eyes fogged up, like a clouded window, again.  This time, however, Obi-Wan could see, and feel in the Force, the creature fighting to resist the mind trick.  In the meantime, Obi-Wan gathered his strength, braced himself for pain, and hauled himself to his feet.  He clutched his belt, one hand ready to draw his lightsaber. 

Pain shot through his body—something aching, pulsing, or screaming in what seemed to be every inch of it, his stomach, his ankle, his ribs, his head.  The room spun, his vision darkened.  His legs felt unsteady, weak.  He reached out into the Force and latched onto it for balance.  The Force was his strength, his adrenaline, the only painkiller he had at the moment and just enough to keep him on his feet. 

The fog in the Overseer’s mind seemed to clear.  His eyes narrowed and his face hardened in fury.  He glared at Obi-Wan, the young, wounded, half-naked, half-dying man who, in his eyes, probably appeared another slave.  He stepped threateningly toward Obi-Wan, opened jaws layered with jagged knife-like teeth, and rasped in a serpent-like voice, “What the kark—” 

“I told the slave to leave the fields,” Obi-Wan said urgently.  Anakin glanced at the Jedi, in shock, gratitude, terror, and hope.  “My ship crashed.  I demanded he take me here and give me aid.”

“Is that so?” the Overseer hissed.  He reached out—one long, powerful arm long enough to stretch the length of the crammed room—and a breath-crushing hand closed around Anakin’s throat.  The young slave tried not to flinch, but Obi-Wan saw him cringed slightly, as pain shot through his neck and harsh fingers bruised his skin.  At the same time, the Overseer stepped threateningly toward Obi-Wan, dragging Anakin along behind him.  The slave stumbled forward, like a leashed animal yanked by his master. 

“And who do you think _you are_ to give it such an order!?” he roared.  “It’s _Master Wooram’s property,_ not yours!”  The beast shoved his hideous face just inches away from the Jedi’s.  Thick, hot breath that reeked of something similar to the smell of decaying carcasses, hit Obi-Wan in the face.  The Knight had to stop himself from cringing—or gagging—at the stench. Yellow eyes narrowed.  His head swiveled to its side.  “You have no right to command _the Master’s_ _slaves._ ” 

“I am well aware of that,” Obi-Wan replied coolly.  His face remained a passive mask.  “But I was injured, and I had no other choice.  That is the only reason I dared to command your master’s slave.”

This seemed to pacify the Overseer somewhat; however, he still appeared far from pleased.  Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin.  His eyes locked with those wrathful yellow orbs again.  “However...” His face was unreadable like stone.  “Now that I’ve seen him, I think he might be of great use to me.  I’d like to purchase him from you.”  

Anakin’s eyes practically bulged out of their sockets.  He stared at Obi-Wan as if he could not believe his ears.  Disbelief, shock.  Obi-Wan’s eyes shifted to steal another glance at the slave.  Then, Anakin’s awed expression hardened to distrust, suspicion, fear... and still... hope.

“Purchase it!?” the Overseer thundered.  His head drew backward in outraged, like a rearing stallion, and his hard skull hit the ceiling.  Dust and sand burst from the roof over him and showered in a dust cloud to the floor.  He barely seemed to notice.  “You dare to desire the Master’s property!?”

Then, the Overseer’s outrage faded to curiosity.  He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head.  He looked hard at Obi-Wan, as if trying to read him, see through any deceit.  “How long do you wish to have him?  If only for the night, perhaps it can be arranged.”

Anakin’s face colored in fury and shame.  He glared at the Overseer, hate, _murder_ in his eyes.  In that moment, if Anakin could have killed him, he would have. 

Obi-Wan could feel it.  Anakin’s rage swirled and roiled in the Force, like a thunderstorm.  Downpoured like rain, cracked like lightning, blazed like fire, or lava spouted from the tops of Mustafarian mountains.  The storm (that was Anakin in the Force) was reckless, wrathful, and _dark,_ so dark it was hard to see through the oblivion.  So much anger, so much hatred.  Indeed, this young slave had great Darkness in him. 

A voice cried out in the Force—a memory or an omen.  It cut through Obi-Wan like the ice of winter’s chill.  The hair on the back of his neck stood up straight.  His heart clenched.  For a moment—a fleeting second—the Jedi was overwhelmed with such raw _fear,_ panic, anguish, one would have thought he lost his best friend.  His brother. 

He glanced fearfully at Anakin, as if he almost expected to see a monster instead of the abused and innocent child.  The slave saw the Jedi look at him.  Immediately, Anakin dropped his eyes.  He stared at the floor.  His cheeks heated bright red.  His hatred, wrath, darkness vanished, melted into humiliation.

Obi-Wan sighed in relief.  Almost that quickly, he forgot about the Darkness he had sensed.  He was glad to dismiss it as a groundless worry.  A paranoid fantasy.     

“Thank you for the offer,” Obi-Wan addressed the Overseer, “however, I want him for more than a night or two.  I want him permanently.”  The creature’s face contorted in dissatisfaction.  Before he could reply, Obi-Wan went on, “I’d like to speak with your Master.  Perhaps, he will agree to sell his ‘property.’”  Obi-Wan could barely say the word with an indifferent face.  “For the right price.”

Round yellow eyes narrowed.  A long forehead gathered in a frown of deep thought.  The Overseer looked Obi-Wan up and down, breathing rot into his face, meticulous eyes scanning him like radar, taking in every inch of his battered, bandaged, exposed body.  Obi-Wan felt his muscles tense.  His jaw clenched.  He resisted the urge to recoil in discomfort, and he stared the creature directly in the eye.  He held his ground.  He didn’t look away.

“You’re a Jedi,” the Overseer said at last.    

Obi-Wan’s heart twitched ( _Blast,_ he thought), but externally he did not react. 

Understanding finally dawned on the creature face.  The ship-crash, the hand-waving, what must have been a mind-trick... it all made sense now.  His eyes locked on the metal cylinder in Obi-Wan’s right hand.  He pointed a long, gnarled finger and a cracked, curled, claw-like nail.  Then his hand clenched into a fist.  “Do not lie to me, I see your lazar-sword!”

“I didn’t lie to you,” Obi-Wan replied calmly.  He frowned, as if confused by the comment.  “I merely requested to speak with your master.  I find myself in need of a slave and someone who can help repair my ship.” 

The Overseer grunted.  He let out a heavy—vomit-inducing—breath, in frustration, fury, or defeat.  Rage contorted his face again, yellow eyes screwed shut beneath translucent eyelids, and his head teetered back and forth, as if he was tortured by the inability to make up his mind.  

Obi-Wan watched him, a tired frown on his lips, afraid he was not going to make any progress with this creature.  Any second, he expected the beast to erupt in a furious roar of rejection.  He sighed. 

“Fine, then!”  The Overseer’s face changed spontaneously.  His thin lips stretched into something that almost resembled a smile.  “As you wish.”  He closed his eyes and bowed his head low in a perhaps-mocking, perhaps-sincere (Obi-Wan honestly could not read this creatures expression _at all_ ) gesture of respect.  A forked-tonged hissed between two curved fangs, “...Massster Jedi.”  He raised his face and opened his eyes.  He looked at the Jedi and smiled.  Obi-Wan’s face remained as hard as stone.  In those yellow eyes, he saw only cruelty, only deceit.  “I will take you to the Master.”

Obi-Wan nodded.  “Thank you.” 

He looked at Anakin.  The boy stared back at him, his face pale and blank in astonishment.  It was a moment before Anakin snapped out of his awed-daze and tried to act natural.  He looked at the floor, as if hanging his head in shame. 

The Jedi cleared his throat.  Anakin glanced at him.  Obi-Wan gestured at his shirt and cloak, balled up on the ground, his face hard, as if commanding the slave to fetch it for him.  Anakin averted his gaze, nodded once, and scrambled to pick it up and bring it to his possibly-future-master. 

 _Thank you,_ Obi-Wan stopped himself from saying.  He accepted his garments—what was left of it—and quickly pulled them over his injured body—

Pain hit him all over again, like a hundred fists at once.  Just the slight brush of fabric against his torn flesh and broken bones was enough to make a man scream in agony.  As for Obi-Wan, it was all he could do to bite his tongue and do his best to keep a straight face.  Once his clothes were on and his wounds covered, his fastened his belt around his waist.  He made sure if lightsaber was where he could easily reach it. 

Anakin handed him his boots.  Obi-Wan accepted them silently.  He slipped the first one with ease.  Then, he carefully moved the second toward his bandaged, throbbing ankle.  He tried not to cringe as he slid his sprained—judging from the amount of pain it cost him, probably broken—ankle into the boot.  Black spots bleed into his eyes; it was hard to breathe.  For a moment, he felt like he would pass out.  He gritted his teeth, shoved his ankle suddenly into the boot.  His heal hit the soul.  Pain shot through his foot and ankle, up his leg, and hit him in the chest.  For a second, he felt sick and fought off the urge to vomit.  He let out his breath in a hiss pain.  It hurt like hell, but at least his boot was on.  He straightened up—the floor seemed to spin beneath his feet.  He took a moment to and called on the Force to regain balance....  He looked at Overseer.

The creature observed the Jedi silently, carefully.  He watched him every move, every second.  A crooked smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Obi-Wan looked away, internally cursing himself.  The Overseer had seen his pain.  He already knew he was injured, now he knew he was weak.  He also knew he was a Jedi, which could be good.  It could be intimidating and work for Obi-Wan’s advantage.  Or, it could be very, very bad. 

“Right this way, Master Jedi,” the Overseer purred.  “I will take you to the Master.” 

Obi-Wan nodded once.  He strode past Anakin, not glancing at him, and followed his guide out of the hut.  The Overseer moved quickly, long-legged long strides.  Obi-Wan struggled to keep up with him, especially injured as he was.  Even at this time of evening, the sun was hot, the desert merciless.  The sand burned his feet, even through the durable fabric of his boots.  Every step sent pain bolting up his leg, cutting through his entire body. 

He glanced back.  Anakin trudged along behind them.  For only a second, the slave and the Jedi looked at the other. 

Dark blue eyes like midnight moonlight reflected off shadow-cloaked water met eyes of clear blue tinged with green, like crystal, sprinkled with sunlight but stained with sadness.  Anakin’s eyes were fear, uncertainty, but also hope.  Obi-Wan’s eyes were reassurance, determination, assertion.  Words did not have to be spoken.  They each understood, as if there was an invisible chord between their minds and souls.  A connection.  A Force Bond. 

Obi-Wan offered the slave a barely-detectable nod.  Anakin returned the gesture. 

The Overseer led the Jedi and the slave to a massive building crafted of sleek black mirror-stone, a rock similar to black marble but twice as expensive and twice as strong.  A pair of double-doors slid open.  The Overseer stepped inside.  Obi-Wan followed— The Overseer spun around suddenly, blocking his path.  

“You cannot take your lazar-sword inside,” he said sternly.  He reached his thick hand toward the Jedi and stretched out his palm.  “Strangers are not permitted to carry weapons.”

“I have no weapons,” Obi-Wan answered, as if baffled by the statement.  He waved his hand between them.   

Yellow eyes clouded up.  For a moment, the Overseer looked confused.  Confusion was almost immediately replaced by fury.  “You fool!” he thundered.  “Do you think I will fall for another of your mind-tricks again!?”  He drew his massive skull back on his shoulders and furiously shook his head.  “Give me your weapon, or you will not enter at all!”

Obi-Wan sighed.  It was worth a try.  He removed his lightsaber from his belt and handed it over. 

The Overseer greedily snatched it up.  He lifted the weapon close to his face.  He turned it, awed, in his hand.  The metal hilt caught in the reflection of the setting sun and gleamed like a priceless jewel.  Yellow eyes inspected the weapon up and down, thirstily drank up the sight.  Obi-Wan frowned as he watched the Overseer, a little concerned that he would not see his lightsaber again.  “Don’t worry, Master Jedi,” the creature hissed, lifting his eyes to look at Obi-Wan once more.  “You won’t need it.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed.  Rather than assurance, the comment induced greater suspicion.  “Let’s hope not,” he said carefully.      

“Right this way.” 

He led them inside.  The interior was as dark as the exterior, every room, every corridor cut of the same black rock.  The fortress seemed empty, but the Force told Obi-Wan otherwise.  Numerous lifeforms stirred behind silent walls and locked doors.  Above them, men and women in the pleasure of their beds.  Beneath them, innocent beings caged, chained, hurting, hungry.  All around them, cruel, cold, calloused heartbeats. 

Their footsteps echoed against the stone floors, as they passed down a long, narrow hallway.  Their reflections were like ghosts moving beneath, above, beside them in the glassy ink-colored walls.  The Overseer gained ground, as his stride was faster than Obi-Wan’s, and Obi-Wan intentionally fell back so he could speak to Anakin.  Anakin, as if they thought with one mind, hurried a few paces forward and walked by the Jedi’s Side.

“This is Wooram’s palace,” he said in a low voice, careful that the Overseer would not hear.  “He came to Mos Espa a few years ago.  He owns all the slaves around here now.  Actually, he pretty much owns the whole _town_ now.” 

Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin but quickly looked away again.  “What is he?” he murmured, his lips barely moving.

“A Hutt,” Anakin grumbled.  He rolled his eyes as if annoyed, but really the name of “Hutt” evoked dread, hatred, and fear.  “And one of the most powerful.  Right after Jabba, himself.  Wooram’s a relative.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan sighed.  “Wonderful.” 

The Overseer stopped suddenly, in front of what appeared a solid wall.  He spun around to face the Jedi.  Obi-Wan frowned.  His eyes flickered past the Overseer and saw his own reflection staring back at him.  “Why did we stop?” he questioned dryly.  

The Creature pressed his palm against the wall.  A high-pitched beep, the metallic clang of a door unlocking.  The wall, itself, seemed to open.  A pair of double doors, undetectable to the eye, slid open.  Beyond them: a square room, cut of the same black mirror-stone, low ceiling, four tight walls, almost like a prison cell. 

Obi-Wan looked at the Overseer.  “You and the slave will wait here," he instructed.  "Master Wooram will be in shortly.” 

Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin.  For a moment, they both hesitated, uncomfortable with the situation.  Obi-Wan nodded curtly. 

He entered the room, Anakin right behind him.  The Overseer stepped forward.  He grabbed Anakin roughly by his shoulder—harsh hands pressed dark bruises into his skin—and shoved him down.  His knees hit the floor, pain exploded in his kneecaps as if they had shattered.  Anakin cringed.  He glared at the Overseer.

The creature withdrew.  He looked at the Jedi and smiled.  The doors slammed shut between them. 

The echo faded.  Silence followed. 

Anakin got hastily to his feet.  He brushed himself off.  Obi-Wan let out a tense breath.  He looked around the small, claustrophobic, prison-like space.  “I have a bad feeling about this.”

As if on cue, several small doors (crafted of mirror-stone like the rest of the palace and, when closed, invisible) slid open on the ceiling above them, like a dozen spider-eyes opening.  Obi-Wan looked up, just in time to see the barrel of a blaster appear in the center of each opening.  At last 12 guns aimed directly at them.  “Blast.  I was right.”

The guns fired all at once.

Obi-Wan threw himself backward, twisted in the air, allowed the Force to guide his movements.  The blaster-bolts—bright blue—zoomed past him, narrowly missed, grazed the billows of his robes.  His feet hit the floor; pain erupted in his bad ankle.  It blinded him, choked him.  It surged like electricity through his entire body. 

He forced it back.  He looked up.  To his astonishment, Anakin had managed to evade the first round of fire too.  The Force was certainly strong with him.  Anakin looked across the room at Obi-Wan.  Their eyes met.  The guns on the ceiling swiveled, half of them to aim at Anakin, half to aim at Obi-Wan.  Obi-Wan nodded.  The Jedi and the slave leaped at the same time.  Another round of electric bolts set the room ablaze.  This time, they didn’t stop.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes.  The Force filled him.  He didn’t need to see—these bullets were too fast to see anyway.  The Force was his eyes, his ears, his instinct. 

Anakin let out a cry on the other side of the room.  Obi-Wan heard his body hit the floor.  Six more guns turned on the Jedi.  But Obi-Wan’s attention was, for a moment, not on the blasters.  It was on Anakin.  He reached out through the Force—urgent, desperate.... Anakin was alive.  He could sense him breathing, hear his heartbeat.  The blasters were set for stun. 

A swarm of bolts flew directly at Obi-Wan.  _Blast!_   He flipped out of the way—a second too late.  His feet hit the floor, his ankle twisted, rolled almost completely 90 degrees.  Pain slice through his leg.  _Kriff._   Twelve shots hit him at once.


End file.
